THE  LIBRARY  OF  YHE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00020906548 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it 
may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


— — 


DATE 
DUE 


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MY    ID)A]RILILK"S    IE 


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THE 


MOTHER'S   PRESENT. 


HOLIDAY  GIFT 


FOR    THE     YOUNG 


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ORIGINAL       AND       SEL 


BOSTON  X^/apelv^ 

PUBLISHED    BY    S.    COL  MAN. 

1847. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846, 

By  PAMELA  COLMAN, 

[n  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


HALLWORTH,  PRINTER, 

8,  Congress  Street,  Boston. 


9o 

<J\hii>     ^UoLune     t6     ai[-ectu>Ki,a,telii    ULSclu>ec),    (>U/    ae^. 
pUertd    cund  toe  £Uen,a  op   \\zX    kaAeat6, 

ipo  ©©ilm-mTo 


820119 


CONTENTS 


Page 

MY  DARLING  BOY 9 

THE  "GOOD"  FAMILY 11 

THE  STAR  OVER  THE  BROOK 26 

DEAR  DUMMY 29 

ROSE 49 

THE  bird's  NEST 57 

THE  CHILDREN'S  SPRING 60 

LINES  ON  THE  LATE  CONCERT  BY  THE  BLIND     ...  71 

LISETTE  :    OR  FAIRY  FAVORS 74 

THE  SPOILED  CHILD .  101 

LINA 103 

THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN 110 


Viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 
AZIL  :    OR  THE  LOST  FOUND 149 

STERLING  WORTH *"° 

1  fi1 
THE  MISER 

FROM  LESSINO 1()1 

1A9 
THE  GOOD  SON *      *      " 

DAME  TRUMAN  AND  HER  LITTLE  PUPILS         ....      176 
CHARLES  DOUGLAS,  THE  WONDER-SEEKER     ....      177 

THE  GOLDEN  AGE 208 

992 
HUMILITY *** 


THE  MOTHERS'  PRESENT, 


MY  DARLING  BOY. 

BY  MISS  COLMA.N. 

Gently  rocks  thy  boat,  sweet  child, 

Thy  boat  of  bright  sea-shell, 
Round  which  the  rippling  wavelets  break, 

With  a  soft  and  lulling  spell. 

Sleep  hath  gently  closed  thine  eyes, 

My  own,  my  darling  boy  ; 
But  happy  smiles  play  o'er  thy  face, 

Which  always  beams  with  joy. 

Fairy  spirits  round  thee  hover, 
Singing  many  a  lovely  song, 
With  the  softest,  sweetest  voices., 
That  to  spirit  land  belong. 

A 


10  MY  DARLING  BOY. 

And  murmuring  low  a  lullaby, 

In  voices  sweetly  blending, 
Angels  guarding  thee  with  love, 

Are  gently  o'er  thee  bending. 

A  rainbow  too,  with  glowing  tints, 

Doth  o'er  thee  brightly  bend, 
A  sign  that  heavenly  wisdom, 

"With  innocence  doth  blend. 

Oh,  listen  to  the  precious  words, 

The  whispering  angels  tell, 
For  they  will  teach  thee  how  to  live, 

That  thou  with  them  may  est  dwell. 

They'll  teach  thee  how,  though  growing  wise, 

To  keep  thy  childlike  mind, 
For  He  who  hallowed  earth  hath  said, 

'T  is  such  in  heaven  we  find. 


THE  "GOOD"  FAMILY. 


BY  MRS.  S.  C.  HALL. 


The  "Good"  family  are  of  ancient  and 
honorable  descent ;  originally,  I  am  led  to 
believe,  they  were  all  good ;  but  they  mar- 
ried into  different  families,  and  took  the 
names  of  their  various  connexions  in  ad- 
dition to  their  own.  One  or  two  had  names 
given  them  of  which  they  are  rather  asham- 
ed. Such  is  the  case  with  Mr.  Good-for- 
nothing,  who  has  a  great  deal  of  pretension 
about  him,  and  yet  is  avoided  by  all  re- 
spectable people,  as  a  dangerous  acquaint- 
ance ;  the  less,  therefore,  I  say  about  him 
the 'better. 

Mrs.  Goodnature  is  a  great  and  deserved 
favorite  with  all  young  people,  though  I 
have  known  persons  who  affected  to  turn 
up  their  noses  at  her  when  they  did  not 


12  THE 

require  her  assistance.  She  is  never  absent 
that  she  is  not  desired ;  and  certainly  no 
society  is  cheerful  or  pleasing  for  any  time, 
where  she  is  not.  Her  voice  is  so  kindly, 
her  manners  are  so  obliging,  that  she  de- 
serves universal  gratitude.  Perhaps  upon 
your  first  introduction,  you  do  not  think 
her  handsome,  but  she  never  fails  to  win 
your  affections ;  and  the  world  would  be 
really  cold  if  her  mild  blue  eyes  ceased  to 
beam  upon  us.  She  is  fond  of  children ; 
indeed  then*  very  existence,  during  their 
early  years,  depends  almost  entirely  upon 
her ;  she  is  so  patient,  so  forgiving.  She 
under-rates  whatever  trouble  she  takes,  and 
over-rates  what  little  she  gives.  She  is  the 
best  mistress  in  the  world;  her  servants 
serve  her  pleasantly.  I  must  confess,  that 
her  manner  is  sometimes  a  little  bustling 
and  undignified;  perhaps  this  proceeds  from 
her  being  but  seldom  in  what  is  called  high 
society;  though  she  is  privately  intimate  with 
many  of  our  nobility.  She  does  not  pat- 
ronise fashionable  novels ;  but  she  is  well 


13 

read  in  good  books,  and  acts  up  to  a  pre- 
cept, which  you  can  find  if  you  please  to 
look  for  it,  and  which  is  as  simple  as  beau- 
tiful.    It  is  this: — 

"  Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself." 
She  is  also  the  very  queen  of  innocent 
amusements;  can  romp  with  my  little  friends 
in  the  nursery ;  sing  with  them  in  the  draw- 
ing-room ;  render  their  tasks  easy,  their 
labors  light ;  and,  what  is  better  still,  watch 
by  a  sick-bed,  and  nurse  sick  children  with 
so  sweet  a  tenderness  that  invalids  say, 
Mrs.  Goodnature  charms  away  their  pain. 
I  think  she  is  my  favorite  of  the  whole 
family. 

The  good-intentioned  are  a  widely  ex- 
tended branch  of  the  Goods.  I  have  heard 
that  they  are  found  in  every  part  of  the 
habitable  world.  There  is  an  hereditary 
lameness  in  this  particular  division  of  the 
family,  which  renders  them  remarkable. 
They  are  tolerated  in  society,  but  I  never 
knew  one  who  was  either  respected  or  be- 
loved.    They  are  weakly  from  their  birth; 

A* 


14 


are  fond  of  talking,  which  weakens  them 
still  more ;  and  I  tell  you,  as  a  secret,  that 
you  must  not  entirely  depend  on  what  they 
say  ;  they  do  not  mean  to  deceive  you,  but, 
as  they  constantly  deceive  themselves,  they 
are  not  to  be  trusted.  They  generally  die 
as  they  live,  without  being  of  service  either 
to  themselves  or  others ;  and  if  it  was  not 
for  the  bounty  and  kind  exertions  of  Mrs. 
Goodnature,  I  fear  that  many  of  the  Good- 
intentioned  would  come  to  an  untimely  end. 

Another  member  of  this  numerous  fam- 
ily, a  Miss  Good,  married  an  Irishman  of 
the  name  of  Fellow ;  and  he,  out  of  com- 
pliment, of  which  all  Irishmen  are  very 
fond,  united  her  name  to  his,  and  thus  the 
two  became  Goodfelloiv . 

There  are  very  few  if  any  female  de- 
scendants of  this  name,  either  in  Ireland 
or  elsewhere  ;  though  the  male  descendants 
are  in  my  opinion  still  too  numerous.  A 
Goodfellow  need  not  of  necessity  be  a  good 
man ;   indeed,  many  of  those  called  Good- 


THE  aGOOD"  FAMILY.  15 

fellows,  whom  I  have  met,  have  been,  in 
my  opinion,  very  bad  persons. 

They  are  generally  wild,  careless,  intem- 
perate people,  who  have  squandered  their 
own  property  thoughtlessly,  and  love  jest- 
ing and  foolish  talking  be.tter  than  employ- 
ment. I  should  not  like  any  of  the  dear 
children  whom  I  know,  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Masters  Goodfellow;  they 
are  such  idle  boys  ! — fond  of  low  company 
and  donkey  races.  Nothing,  I  am  certain, 
could  transform  a  Goodfellow  into  a  gen- 
tleman; so  why  should  I  say  any  more 
about  them  ? 

If  I  dislike  the  Goodfellows,  I  can  hardly 
tell  you  how  much  I  admire  the  Good-tem- 
pered! The  ladies  of  this  family  are  par- 
ticularly delightful,  and,  believe  me,  you 
never  can  be  too  intimate  with  them ;  there 
is  a  sweetness  in  their  smiles,  a  serenity  in 
their  eyes,  a  gentleness  in  their  aspect, 
which  it  is  impossible  to  describe.  Their 
motto  is,  "  Bear  and  forbear."  I  could 
tell  you  many  anecdotes  of  families  recon- 


16  THE 

ciled — quarrels  prevented — asperities  soft- 
ened, by  the  worthy  members  of  this  family, 
who  seem  bound  to  please  not  only  each 
other,  but  all  the  world.  They  do  not 
court  admiration,  though  their  influence  in 
general  society  is  very  considerable ;  but 
they  are  the  charm  and  essence  of  domes- 
tic life.  As  sisters,  they  are  so  gentle,  so 
unselfish !  remembering,  in  the  beautiful 
words  of  Scripture,  "  That  a  soft  answer 
turneth  away  wrath."  They  reply,  when 
spoken  to  quickly  or  harshly,  with  the  ut- 
most serenity  ;  and  so  great  in  the  end  does 
their  influence  become,  that  they  have  fre- 
quently the  happiness  of  rendering  others  as 
amiable  as  themselves,  by  the  mere  force 
of  example. 

As  daughters,  the  Misses  Goodtempered 
are  really  exemplary.  I  knew  one  whose 
maternal  grandmother  was  lame,  deaf,  more 
than  half  blind,  and  oh !  so  cross — nothing 
ever  pleased  her.  Morning,  noon,  and 
night,  she  did  nothing  but  find  fault.  This 
was  not  right,  and  t'  other  Avas  not  right : 


THE  "GOOD"  FAMILY.  17 

then  the  weather ;  the  poor  old  lady  was 
ever  murmuring  at  God's  will ;  it  was  al- 
ways too  hot,  or  too  cold,  or  too  wet,  or 
too  dry,  or  too  dark,  or  too  light.  I  used 
to  feel  for  Julie,  and  Julie  seemed  to  feel 
for  every  body  but  herself.  At  last,  one 
evening,  her  good  temper  fairly  overcame 
her  grandmamma's  crossness.  I  will  tell 
you  how  it  was. 

"  Julie,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  pull  down 
the  blind ; "  the  blind  was  pulled  down. 
"  Julie,  pull  up  the  blind,  I  can't  see  at 
all ;"  up  went  the  blind.  "  Julie,  why  did 
you  not  answer  me,  when  I  told  you  to 
pull  up  the  blind?  you  should  have  said, 
yes."  "Yes,  dear  grandmamma"  shouted 
Julie,  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  "Ah!" 
said  the  old  lady,  "  I  wish  somebody  would 
read  to  me  whom  I  could  hear  ;  I  want  to 
know  what  they  said  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons last  night."  Julie  had  an  appoint- 
ment with  some  young  friends  to  take  a 
walk;  yet,  instead  of  doing  so,  she  took 
off  her  bonnet  and  sat  down  upon  a  stool 


18 

at  her  grandmamma's  feet,  with  a  pleasant 
and  cheerful  countenance,  to  read  or  rather 
to  scream  out  the  debates,  which  we  all 
know  can  possess  no  immediate  interest  for 
a  young  lady  of  fifteen.  No  impatience 
manifested  itself  in  her  sweet  countenance. 
She  read  paragraph  after  paragraph,  and 
speech  after  speech,  some  of  them  twice 
over ;  and  at  last  the  old  lady  fell  asleep. 
Julie  opened  the  window  softly,  and  stood 
enjoying  the  soft  warm  air,  and  the  gentle 
twilight  of  a  summer  evening.  She  had 
not  had  five  minutes  to  herself  during  the 
whole  of  the  past  week.  The  window 
overlooked  a  pleasant  valley,  and  she  could 
hear  the  laughter  and  the  songs  of  her 
young  friends.  I  believe  tears  did  gather 
in  her  eyes,  but  she  wiped  them  quickly 
away,  and  turned  with  renewed  patience, 
to  the  sharp,  impatient  exclamation  of  her 
grandmamma,  who  called  "  Julie,"  only 
to  commence  fresh  lamentations  and  com- 
plaints. 

"  I  wish  Julie,  you  were  a  little  taller, 


THE  "GOOD"  FAMILY.  19 

that  I  might  lean  on  you  while  I  walk,  in- 
stead of  leaning  on  my  maid, — she  moves 
so  quickly." 

"  Lean  on  my  shoulder,  grandmamma, 
instead  of  my  arm,"  replied  the  girl,  who 
well  deserved  the  name  "Good  temper." 

"  Your  shoulder  is  too  high,"  replied  the 
old  lady,  peevishly.  "  I  wish  you  were 
either  taller  or  shorter,  and  then  you  might 
be  of  some  use." 

I  know  some  young  ladies,  who,  instead 
of  replying  in  gentle  terms  to  this  certainly 
unmerited  reproach,  would  have  said,  "  In- 
deed, grandmamma,  I  cannot  help  my 
height ;  and  as  to  being  useful,  I  am  sure  I 
am  as  useful  as  I  can  be."  But  no,  the 
color  mounted  to  Julie's  cheek:  she  felt 
hurt,  and  no  wonder ;  good  temper  does 
not  prevent  our  feeling,  but  it  prevents  our 
evincing  that  feeling  in  an  unamiable  man- 
ner ;  its  natural  sweetness  destroys  the  acid- 
ity of  human  nature,  and  renders  the  bitter 
palatable. 

"  I  will  stoop,  grandmamma,  I  can  very 


20 


well  walk  so  ;  you  suffer  so  much  pain  that 
I  would  do  anything  in  my  power  to  allevi- 
ate it,"  said  Julie.  The  old  lady  looked 
in  her  grand-daughter's  face,  and  said, 
"  Humph  !"  nothing  more,  and  leaned  upon 
her  shoulder,  crawling  up  and  down,  up 
and  down  the  room,  for  more  than  half  an 
hour. 

"  That  will  do  Julie,"  she  said  at  last ; 
"and  now  I  will  sit  down,  and  you  shall 
read  me  last  night's  debate  over  again. 
What  I  did  hear  was  very  interesting,  but 
part  of  the  time  I  was  asleep ;  and  you  did 
not  read  quite  loud  enough."  While  one 
servant  was  bringing  in  candles,  another 
brought  Julie  a  little  note  ;  it  was  from  her 
dearest  friends  who  lived  in  the  next  cot- 
tage, requesting  her  to  come  to  them  for 
two  or  three  hours,  as  they  were  going  to 
try  over  some  new  music,  and  dance  some 
quadrilles.  Again  Julie's  cheek  flushed. 
"  If  I  ask  grandmamma,"  she  thought,  "she 
will  not  prevent  me  ;  but  then,  her  maid 
cannot  read  as  loudly  as  I  can  ;  and  she  has 


THE  UGOOD"  FAMILY.  21 

set  her  heart  upon  those  debates."  She 
looked  at  the  old  lady ;  there  was  an  ex- 
pression of  settled  pain  upon  her  features 
that  touched  Julie's  heart.  She  wrote  a 
short  note  of  apology  to  her  friends,  and 
sat  down  with  a  satisfied  spirit  to  her  task. 
Does  it  seem  strange  to  you,  that  Julie, 
after  the  first  feelings  of  disappointment 
were  over,  felt  happy  ?  I  am  sorry  for  it 
if  it  does,  because  it  is  a  proof  to  me,  that 
you  have  not  yet  tasted  the  sweets  of  self- 
denial.  I  assure  you,  Julie  was  happy,  per- 
fectly happy.  She  had  not  only  done  her 
duty,  but  she  had  done  it  with  cheerfulness. 
While  Julie  was  assisting  to  undress  the  old 
lady  at  night,  the  little  note  of  invitation 
which  she  had  received,  fell  from  her  bo- 
som. "  What  note  is  that,  Julie  ?  "  inquir- 
ed her  grandmamma. 

Julie,  I  am  happy  to  say,  never  either  told 
a  story  or  equivocated. 

"  A  note  I  received  from  the  cottage  this 
evening,  grandmamma." 

"  What  about,  Julie." 


22 

"  Inviting  me  to  go  in  to  hear  some 
music." 

"  And  why  did  you  not  go,  child  ?  " 

"  Because,  dear  grandmamma,  you  wish- 
ed me  to  read  you  the  debates." 

"  My  maid  could  have  done  that,"  observ- 
ed the  old  lady ;  and  she  did  not  speak 
again  for  several  minutes ;  at  last  she  ex- 
claimed, "  Julie  !  " 

"  Well,  dear  grandmamma  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  you  can  love  me,  I  cause 
you  so  many  privations  ?  " 

"  My  dear  grandmamma,  I  feel  a  little 
disappointed  sometimes ;  but  I  do  love  you 
for  all  that,  and  when  you  seem  pleased  with 
what  I  do,  I  am  perfectly  and  entirely 
happy." 

The  old  lady  went  to  bed  ;  Julie  prayed 
by  her  bed-side  as  usual ;  but  when  she 
went  to  her  in  the  morning,  she  saw  she 
had  been  weeping. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well,  my  dear 
grandmamma,"  said  the  kind  girl. 

"  I  am  never  well,"  she  replied ;    "  but, 


the  "good"  family.  23 

Julie,  I  begin  to  think  I  make  myself  worse: 
I  fret  and  fidget,  and  torment  myself  and 
others,  more  than  I  need.  I  have  lived  a 
great  many  years  in  the  world,  and  instead  of 
regretting  present  pain  as  much  as  I  do,  I 
ought  to  think  of  past  happiness,  and  endea- 
vor to  look  towards  that  enjoyment  which  I 
hope  to  have  hereafter.  You  have  been  a 
good  girl,  Julie — a  very  good  girl ;  I  can- 
not call  to  mind  your  having  once  made 
me  an  improper  answer,  or  evinced  the 
slightest  symptom  of  impatience,  though  I 
know  I  have  often  provoked  you." 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed  Julie,  "it  was 
my  duty,  grandmamma,  to  bear  whatever 
you  chose  to  say." 

"  My  dear,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  people  do 
not  always  do  their  duty.  I  am  an  old  wo- 
man, but  am  willing  to  acknowledge  that  old 
as  I  am,  your  example  has  done  me  good. 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  say,  that  I  will  try 
and  follow  it.  Pain,  my  dear, — pain  and 
long  habit,  will  prevent  me  from  being 
what  I  ought  to  be ;  but  I  know  I  can  say 


24 


this  to  you,  Julie;  you  have  made  your 
grandmother  sorry  for  her  crossness,  by 
your  own  invincible  good  temper.  Bless 
you,  my  dear  child  !  you  have  been  a  bles- 
sing to  me  all  your  life !  "  Tears  ran  down 
the  old  lady's  cheeks  as  she  spoke ;  Julie 
kissed  them  off,  and  assured  her  grand- 
mamma, that  the  greatest  happiness  of  her 
life  would  be  to  do  all  in  her  power  to  ren- 
der her  old  age  tranquil  and  comfortable. 
It  was  both  pleasing  and  extraordinary  to 
see  how  well  the  old  lady  kept  her  resolve  ; 
she  continued  for  many  years  an  example 
of  the  precept,  that  it  is  "never  too  late  to 
mend." 

The  Good-hearted  are  another  branch  of 
this  family ;  but  I  confess  that  many  take 
the  name  who  have  no  right  to  it.  When 
I  hear  persons,  who  I  knoAv  have  done  all 
manner  of  mischief  in  the  world,  called 
"Good-hearted,"  merely  because  they  have 
free  and  careless  habits,  and  are  ready  to 
give  away  what,  in  strict  justice  and  honor, 
is  not  their   own,   I  know  that  they  have 


25 


adopted  the  name  "  Good,"  to  cloak  the 
reality  "Evil;"  so  that  when  persons  are 
called  "  Good-hearted,'''1  I  would  always 
wish  my  young  friends  to  ascertain  if  they 
really  deserve  the  distinction.  The  truly 
"Good-hearted"  are  most  estimable  peo- 
ple, combining  in  themselves  all  the  good 
qualities  of  the  Goods  ;  but  the  Good-hearts 
are  known  by  good  deeds;  one  never  exists 
without  the  other.  I  cannot  say  more  about 
this  family  at  present ;  but  of  one  thing  I 
am  certain,  that  if  you  cultivate  the  acquaint- 
ance of  those  I  have  ventured  to  recom- 
mend to  your  notice,  you  will  be  the  hap- 
pier for  it  all  the  days  of  your  life. 


b* 


THE  STAR  OVER   THE  BROOK. 


BY  MISS  COLMAN. 


The  brook  it  ran  and  rippled, 
Between  two  grassy  banks, 

The  flowers  bent  and  whispered 
Their  gentlest,  sweetest  thanks. 


Oh  none  could  tell  how  dearly 
The  flowers  loved  the  brook, 

Though  its  breast  did  mirror  back 
Each  sweet  expressive  look. 


And  none  had  ever  heard 

The  flowers'  gentle  sigh, 
Though  some  there  were  who  listened, 

To  the  brooklet's  low  reply. 


THE  STAR  OVER  THE  BROOK.       27 

There  too  the  waving  grass, 

Which  grew  so  soft  and  green, 
"Would  bend  and  bend,  until  each  blade, 

To  kiss  the  stream  was  seen. 


And  ever  there  among  the  leaves, 
Was  a  strange  low  whisper  heard, 

Which  ceased  not  all  the  quiet  night, 
When  sweetly  slept  each  bird. 


And  o'er  this  happy  brook, 
There  hung  a  lovely  star, 

Which  ever  through  the  gloom, 
Shed  clearest  light  afar. 


But  e'er  the  dawning  day 
Had  made  the  stars  grow  dim, 

She,  with  her  sister  angels, 
Did  chant  a  morning  hymn. 


28       THE  STAR  OVER  THE  BROOK. 

Then  woke  each  tiny  flowret, 
Each  blade  of   modest  green, 

While  sparkling  in  the  light, 
The  farewell  tears  were  seen. 


For  the  star  so  pure  and  bright, 
Shone  on  an  angel's  brow  ; 

'T  was  the  guardian  of  the  flowers, 
And  she  must  leave  them  now. 


'T  is  true  she  watches  ever  ; 

But  only  in  the  night, 
When  sleeps  the  glaring  eye  of  day, 

Can  they  see  her  quiet  light. 


DEAR  DUMMY. 

"  I  WAS  BORN  SO,    MOTHER." 

BY  MRS.  S.  C.  HALL. 

"  I  assure  you  it  was  all  Dummy's  fault, 
grandmamma ;  you  know  that  when  she 
gets  a  notion  into  her  head  it  is  quite  impos- 
sible to  prevent  her  from  persisting  in  doing 
whatever  she  determines  to  do  !  " — 

"  She  is  a  little  obstinate  now  and  then, 
I  confess,"  replied  Lady  Isabella  Lloyd  to 
her  grand-daughter  Margaret,  who  censured 
so  severely  one  who  had  been  sorely  afflict- 
ed.— "A  little  obstinate  now  and  then,"  re- 
peated the  noble  old  lady — "  but  that  ought 
not  to  provoke  injustice  :  you  forget,  Mar- 
garet, who  sat  by  your  bed  of  long-contin- 
ued illness — you  forget  who  watches  your 
every  movement — you  forget  who  humbles 
to  your  every  caprice — you  forget " — 


30  DEAR  DUMMY. 

"  No,  grandmamma,"  interrupted  the- 
young  lady,  "  I  do  not  forget — I  love  dear 
Dummy  very  much,  but  she  vexes  me  some- 
times." 

"  You  vex  both  her  and  me  very  often," 
replied  her  grandmother — "and  you  should 
remember  that  her  infirmity  frequently 
causes  her  to  be  impetuous,  while  you,  my 
child,  have,  thank  God,  no  such  excuse !  " 

"  Dummy,"  as  the  subject  of  this  conver- 
sation had  been  always  called,  was  a  young 
and  exceedingly  beautiful  Indian  girl,  who 
had  been  committed  to  the  care  of  Lady 
Isabella  and  Mr.  Lloyd,  no  one  exactly 
knew  why,  when  not  more  than  five  years 
old  ;  nobody  knew  who  she  was  ; — the  ser- 
vants called  her  "  Miss  Dummy," — Lady 
Isabella,  "  little  Dummy," — and  Margaret, 
( when  she  was  in  good  humor,)  "  dear 
Dummy." — The  captain  of  the  vessel  who 
brought  her  over  designated  her  as  Dummy 
in  a  sort  of  bill-of-lading  letter,  which  he 
wrote  to  Mr.  Lloyd,  intimating  her  arrival 
and  consignment  to  his  care  ;  and  when  the 


DEAR  DUMMY.  31 

poor  child  appeared  at  Lloyd  Park,  why  she 
was  so  described  was  but  too  apparent.  She 
had  not  been  born  deaf ;  but  so  very  imper- 
fect were  her  organs  of  speech,  that  she 
could  not  pronounce  the  simplest  sentence 
without  such  painful  hesitation,  that  it  was 
perfect  agony  both  to  herself  and  others — 
and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  she 
learned  with  avidity  the  signs  which  inter- 
preted her  thoughts,  and  saved  her  so  much 
labor  and  excitement. 

Lady  Isabella,  treated  her  with  great 
kindness,  and  the  little  stranger  returned 
her  love  with  a  seven-fold  interest.  She 
was  one  of  those  creatures  made  up  of  ten- 
derness and  affection,  with  whom  the  world 
has  little  sympathy,  because  it  cannot  under- 
stand the  earnestness,  the  uncalculating 
fondness,  the  devotion,  the  simplicity  of  its 
emotions.  She  was  of  singular  and  pecu- 
liar beauty :  her  limbs  appeared  as  if  bound 
together  more  by  will  than  the  power  of  mus- 
cle, they  were  so  small,  so  agile,  so  graceful, 
so  full  of  motion, and  so  beautiful  when  in  re- 


32  DEAR  DUMMY. 

pose.  To  her  the  world  appeared  as  one 
huge  mass  of  poetry  :  she  wept  with  the 
showers,  and  danced  with  the  sunshine  ;  she 
loved  flowers,  and  moonlight  and  music  ; 
and  every  bird  and  beast  that  was  young 
and  helpless  was,  as  it  were,  cherished  in 
her  bosom,  or  carried  in  her  arms.  It  was 
singular  to  observe  how  completely  the  lux- 
uries and  enjoyments  of  society  failed  to 
excite  her  interest ;  this  was  the  principal 
reason  why  she  was  so  little  seen  by  persons 
of  rank  and  fashion  who  visited  at  Lloyd 
Park,  or  joined  the  fetes  during  the  family's 
sojourn  at  their  old-fashioned  mansion  in 
Grosvenor  Place.  Added  to  this  distaste 
for  society,  or  perhaps  the  real  cause  of  its 
existence,  was  the  knowledge  she  had  of 
her  defect :  not  to  be  able  to  reply  when 
spoken  to  must  have  caused  a  mind  like  hers 
a  painful  and  constantly-recurring  misery  ; 
and  though  she  wrote  apt  and  piquant  an- 
swers to  all  who  questioned,  and  wrote  them 
in  an  exquisite  hand  upon  her  little  tablets 
of  the  whitest  ivory,  still  she  would  retire 


DEAR  DUMMY.  33 

from  society  to  her  books,  her  music,  or  her 
flowers,  leaving  her  lofty  and  magnificent 
friend  Margaret  in  quiet  possession  of  the 
homage  she  appreciated  far  more  highly 
than  it  deserved. 

Sometimes  Lady  Isabella  would  force  her 
into  society,  and  display  her  beautiful 
charge  calling  sweet  music  from  the  harp, 
upon  which  she  excelled, — yet  in  a  way 
different  from  all  others.  Her  execution 
was  not  startling,  but  the  tones  were  deep 
and  low,  swelling  and  melodious,  shadow- 
ing forth  the  gentler  passions,  and  playing 
with  the  feelings,  until  she  tuned  them  to 
her  own  sweet  will.  She  felt  all  she  ex- 
pressed, and  expressed  it  all  the  better  for 
the  feeling ;  and  her  smiles  would  quiver, 
or  her  dark  lustrous  eyes  overflow  with  tears, 
as  she  revelled  in  melody,  the  cadences  of 
which  sunk  into  the  heart. 

Lady  Isabella  Lloyd  had  the  misfortune 

to  lose  her  only  son,  the  same  year  that 

Dummy  was  consigned  to  her  care :    the 

calamity  was  increased  by  the  fact  that  the 

c 


34  DEAR  DUMMY. 

only  child  he  left  had  lost  her  mother,  who 
unfortunately  died  on  giving  it  birth. 

Margaret  and  her  young  companion  grew 
in  stature  and  in  affection  together  ;  I  say 
affection,  because,  notwithstanding  Marga- 
ret's hasty  and  imperious  temper,  and  her 
pronencss  to  cast  blame  upon  her  friend, 
she  loved  her,  not  perhaps  with  a  very  strong 
affection,  for  that  would  have  overcome  all 
jealousy,  and  those  little  painful  fits  of  occa- 
sional ill-temper  which  she  indulged  in  ;  but 
she  really  liked  the  Indian  girl  very  much, 
when  she  did  not  fancy  that  her  grandma- 
ma  loved  her  too  well.  The  observation 
which  drew  forth  Lady  Isabella's  reproof 
was  one  she  was  rather  too  often  in  the 
habit  of  making :  if  the  pitch  of  the  piano 
did  not  exactly  suit  her  voice,  it  was  Dum- 
my's fault ;  if  she  misplaced  her  drawings, 
Dummy  was  blamed  ;  if  her  harp-playing 
was  not  admired  as  much  as  she  thought  it 
deserved  to  be,  Dummy  was  secretly  con- 
demned.     "It  is  her  playing,"   imagined 


DEAR  DUMMY.  35 

Margaret,  "  that  throws  mine  into  the 
shade." 

My  young  friends,  have  you  ever  thought 
of  the  meanness  and  despicable  nature  of 
envy  ?  Have  you  considered  its  dangerous 
tendency?  have  you  called  to  mind  how 
it  lowers  and  degrades  every  generous  prin- 
ciple of  your  nature  ?  have  you  observed 
how  it  debases  the  mind,  and  cramps  the 
understanding?  have  you  not  read  how 
Cain  envied  Abel?  Envy  was  the  first 
murderer.  I  would  say  to  you  earnestly, 
most  earnestly,  suffer  it  not  to  enter  your 
hearts,  for,  if  once  it  enters,  it  will  dwell 
therein ;  it  is  the  most  creeping  and  insidi- 
ous of  all  sins ;  its  progress  is  almost  im- 
perceptible, but  it  is  sure  ;  and  its  effects  on 
yourself  and  towards  others  are  terrible  to 
think  upon. 

If  any  one  had  told  Margaret  that  she  en- 
vied her  afflicted  companion,  she  would 
have  tossed  her  haughty  head,  and  demand- 
ed why  ?  Yet  she  did  envy  her.  She  en- 
vied her  the  share  she  possessed  of  her 


DEAR  DUMMY. 


grandmamma's  affections  ;  she  envied  her 
the  admiration  excited  by  her  beauty,  and 
her  skill  in  music.  She  forgot  how  great 
were  her  privations,  and  she  suffered  her 
mind  to  become  tainted  by  this  despicable 
vice.  You  must  not  suppose  that  Dummy 
was  faultless  ;  she  was  irritable  ;  she  was 
apt  to  imagine  that  she  was  the  object  of 
slight  and  remark,  when  she  was  neither  ; 
and,  though  she  had  latterly  conquered  her- 
self to  a  great  degree,  and  did  not  exhibit 
the  impatience  she  used  in  her  childhood, 
yet  her  cheek  would  flush,  her  eyes  over- 
flow with  tears,  and  she  would  seek  the  pri- 
vacy of  her  own  room,  and  weep  away  her 
irritation.  During  her  early  days  it  had 
never  entered  into  her  mind  to  inquire  how 
she  was  supported  ;  whether  she  possessed 
any  property  of  her  own,  or  was  entirely 
dependent  upon  the  bounty  of  Mr.  and 
Lady  Isabella  Lloyd.  When,  however, 
she  had  attained  her  sixteenth  year,  she  be- 
came very  anxious  about  it,  and  ventured  to 
question  Lady  Isabella  upon  the  subject;  it 


DEAR  DUMMY.  37 

was  with  a  trembling  hand  that  she  present- 
ed her  the  tablet  upon  which  the  inquiry 
was  written,  with  a  request  to  tell  her  who 
she  was. 

"  Are  you  not  happy?  "  said  the  old  lady. 

Dummy  threw  her  arms  around  her 
friend's  neck  as  an  assurance  that  she  loved 
her,  rather  than  as  a  reply  to  her  question. 

"You  will  never  want  the  means  of  living 
as  you  now  live,"  continued  Lady  Isabella; 
"  will  not  that  content  you  ?"  Dummy  hung 
her  head.  "I  do  not  like  to  refuse  you 
any  reasonable  request ;  and  yet,  perhaps 
it  is  better  that  you  know  nothing  more 
about  yourself."  The  girl  closed  her  hands 
in  supplication.  Lady  Isabella  paused ; — 
"  You  have  a  claim  upon  us ;  in  point  of 
feeling,  almost  as  strong  as  Margaret's  ; — 
listen  : — Mr.  Lloyd  has  been  twice  married; 
I  am  his  second  wife.  His  first  marriage 
produced  him  a  daughter,  who  became,  as 
she  grew  up,  anything  but  a  blessing  to  him. 
Without  his  permission  she  went  to  India, 
where  she  died,  leaving  you  upon  the 
c* 


38  DEAR  DUMMY. 

world." — "And  my  father  ?  "  wrote  the  In- 
dian on  her  tablets.  "  We  suppose  him 
dead  ;  at  all  events  he  deserted  you.  My 
husband  felt  his  daughter's  disobedience 
and  evil  conduct  so  bitterly,  that  I  could 
only  prevail  upon  him  to  receive  you  on  one 
condition,  that  your  relationship  was  never 
to  be  mentioned." 

"I  could  not  help  my  poor  mother's  error," 
she  pencilled — "  I  am  not  disobedient." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Lady  Isabella, 
"  perhaps  I  have  not  done  right  in  telling 
you  so  much  ;  you  can  form  no  idea  of  the 
cause  of  Mr.  Lloyd's  displeasure  ;  it  was 
great,  it  was  terrible  !  Your  mother  al- 
most broke  his  heart.  Margaret  has  no 
idea  of  this  ;  she  does  not  know  that  her 
grandfather  had  ever  more  than  one  child, 
and  it  is  better  that  she  continue  to  think 
so." 

Dummy  seized  her  tablets  eagerly,  and 
wrote,  "  She  would  love  me  better  if  she 
thought  I  was  her  cousin." 

"  No,"  said  Lady  Isabella,  "  she  would 


DEAR  DUMMY.  39 

not ;  and  I  command  you  not  to  inform  her 
of  it." 

Lady  Isabella  had  seen  the  envious  dis- 
position of  her  otherwise  beloved  Margaret, 
and  bitterly  did  she  lament  it.  Dummy 
felt  most  sensibly  this  excellent  lady's  kind- 
ness ;  and,  while  she  wept  upon  her  bosom, 
her  voiceless  prayers  were  offered  that 
God  might  reward  her  generosity  to  the 
poor  girl,  who,  but  for  her  intercession, 
would  have  been  indeed  an  outcast. 

Then  she  again  wrote,  "  I  have  nothing 
of  my  own! " 

"  You  have  enough,"  was  Lady  Isabella's 
reply,  "and  you  will  always  have  enough." 

"But  I  owe  all  to  charity !  "  was  her 
next  remark,  and  she  blushed  while  she 
wrote  it. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Lady  Isabella  gravely, 
"  we  owe  all  to  charity — to  the  charity  of 
God !  " 

Dummy  was  not  satisfied.  She  longed 
to  tell  Margaret  of  her  relationship — she 
longed  to  think  of  Mr.  Lloyd,  (though  he 


40  DEAR  DUMMY. 

was  a  harsh,  stern  man) — she  longed  to 
write  him  "  Grand-papa."  She  often  wept 
for  her  mother,  and  wondered  if,  when  the 
end  of  all  things  came,  she  should  be  able 
to  recognise  her  in  another  world.  Her 
father  too,  she  wondered  if  he  were  yet 
alive,  and  inquired  of  herself  if  he  would 
look  stern  and  cold  like  Mr.  Lloyd.  Mar- 
garet, whom  she  tenderly  loved,  repulsed 
her  in  a  thousand  different  ways  ;  her  beha- 
vior to  her  was  dictated  by  caprice.  At 
one  moment  she  would  play  with  or  sing  to 
her ;  the  next  she  would  refuse  to  walk  or 
sit  in  the  same  room :  the  truth  was  that 
Margaret  at  times  struggled  against  her  en- 
vious feelings;  at  others  yielded  most  cul- 
pably to  their  suggestions.  Lady  Isabella 
had  grown  old,  and  Margaret  might  almost 
be  called  the  mistress  of  the  establishment. 
It  is  a  great  disadvantage  to  young  persons 
to  be  intrusted  with  power  before  they  know 
how  to  use  it. 

I  need  hardly  repeat  what  has  been  so 
often  and  so  wisely  said,  that,  to  command 


DEAR  DUMMY.  41 

properly,  we  must  first  learn  to  obey.  No 
mind  is  ever  healthy  that  is  not  properly 
disciplined ;  and  Margaret  had  been  indulg- 
ed to  excess  from  her  birth.  As  an  heiress, 
she  was  certain  of  having  plenty  of  flattery 
and  admiration,  and  both  had  become  ne- 
cessary to  her  as  the  air  she  breathed. 
Was  it  not  melancholy  to  think  that  she 
grudged  her  afflicted  friend  the  affection 
bestowed  on  her  by  her  grandmother,  and 
that  latterly  she  never  saw  her  seated  at  the 
harp  without  feeling  a  sharp  and  bitter  pain 
at  the  applause  bestowed  upon  her  exqui- 
site music  ?  One  evening  Dummy  had 
been  playing  to  Lady  Isabella  ;  Margaret, 
who  seldom  spent  many  minutes  with  her 
grandmother,  came  in.  "  Margaret,"  said 
the  old  lady,  "  send  for  this  harp  before  the 
company  you  expect  arrive :  she  plays  on 
it  better  than  she  does  on  yours." 

"  Dummy  professes  to  love  music  so  much 
for  your  sake  and  its  own,"  she  replied  bit- 
terly, "  that  perhaps  she  may  prefer  remain- 
ing with  you." 


42  DEAR  DUMMY. 

"  She  does  prefer  remaining  with  me, 
when  one,  the  child  of  my  child,  prefers 
society  and  amusement  to  the  care  it  would 
be  natural  to  suppose  she  ought  to  bestow 
upon  her  grandmother. — Yet — " 

The  object  of  this  encomium  did  not  per- 
mit her  ladyship  to  finish  the  sentence ;  she 
thew  her  arms  round  her  neck,  and  mur- 
mured the  only  word  she  could  pronounce 
without  pain,  "  No — no — no — no." 

"My  sweet  child,"  said  the  old  lady,  "it 
is  ever  thus ;  you  are  always  the  peace- 
maker, my  sweet — sweet  child  !  " 

"  Sheer  hypocrisy!  "  muttered  Margaret. 
Then  indeed  the  color  mounted  to  the  In- 
dian's cheek ;  fire  flashed  from  her  bright 
black  eyes  as  they  rested  on  Margaret. 
Lady  Isabella  laid  her  hand_  on  her  arm, 
and  looked  imploringly  in  her  face.  The 
same  moment  Margaret  quitted  the  room. 

Dummy  wept  sadly  all  that  night.  Her 
feelings  had  long  been  subject  to  bitter  in- 
jury, but  they  had  never  before  been  so  in- 
sulted.    Not  even  the  command  of  her  pro- 


DEAR  DUMMY.  43 

tectress  could  induce  her  to  make  one  in 
the  festivities ;  and  Margaret's  animosity 
was  increased  by  the  numerous  inquiries 
which  were  made  after  "  La  Belle  Indi- 
enne ! " 

How  different  were  the  feelings  of  those 
two  girls  on  that  memorable  night, — memo- 
rable, inasmuch  as  it  was  the  first  on  which 
they  retired  to  their  several  chambers  with- 
out exchanging  a  well  understood  "good 
night — good  night !  "  How  many  sweet 
remembrances  are  linked  with  those  two 
simple  words;  the  dear  "  good  night,"  sel- 
dom unaccompanied  by  a  blessing  when  it 
comes  from  the  lips  of  an  affectionate 
father  or  a  tender  mother ; — the  delicious 
"  good  night "  murmured  when  brothers 
and  sisters  kiss  each  other's  cheeks,  and  lin- 
ger, loath  to  part,  even  to  enjoy  the  refresh- 
ment of  sleep,  which  they  perhaps  think 
sad,  because  it  is  solitary  ; — the  kind  "good 
night"  of  friends — of  those  we  esteem — 
of  those  separated  by  distance,  and  whom 
perhaps  we  may  never  meet  again  ! — It  is 


44  DEAR  DUMMY. 

a  gentle  courtesy  that  ought  never  to  be  for- 
gotten— born  of  good  feeling — trained  by 
good  breeding. 

Dummy  knew  that  Margaret  must  pass 
her  chamber  to  go  to  her  own,  and  she 
watched  for  her  soft  but  rapid  footfall  with 
a  beating  heart.  It  came,  it  went ;  it  did 
not  even  linger  ;  and  when  she  heard  the 
closing  door  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed 
in  an  agony  of  grief.  When  her  grief  sub- 
sided she  knelt  and  prayed.  She  examin- 
ed her  own  heart ;  she  found  it  more  full 
of  indignation  than  was  seemly  in  a  Chris- 
tian girl.  She  prayed  again,  and  though  her 
thoughts  were  voiceless,  they  found  their 
way  to  the  Almighty's  throne.  At  last  she 
prayed  truly  and  earnestly  for  Margaret, 
and  then  she  slept. 

Let  it  be  remembered  how  differently 
those  two  girls  had  spent  the  evening ; — the 
Indian  by  lady  Isabella's  sick  couch,  or  in 
the  solitude  of  her  own  room ;  Margaret 
in  the  gayety  and  splendor  which  surround 
the  rich  and  beautiful.     Will  it  be  believed 


DEAR  DUMMY.  45 

that  it  did  not  cost  the  young  heiress  a  sin- 
gle pang  to  omit  the  "  good  night,"  to 
which  she  had  been  accustomed  for  years? 
She  had  argued  herself  into  the  belief  that 
she  had  been  injured  by  Dummy.  She 
could  not  bear  the  hideous  aspect  of  envy, 
and  sought  to  conceal  its  deformity  under 
the  garb  of  indignation.  She  repeated  to 
herself  that  Dummy  had  supplanted  her 
in  her  grandmamma's  affections,  that  she 
tried  to  supplant  her  every  where.  She,  a 
poor  dependent  on  their  bounty — she  sneer- 
ed at  her  affliction — she — but  it  is  an  ugly 
picture;  I  will  not  continue  it,  and  only  add, 
that  night  she  either  did  not  or  could  not 
pray ;  and  her  maid  told  the  servants  the 
next  morning,  "that  indeed,  if  Miss  Lloyd 
continued  in  such  a  temper  as  she  was  last 
night,  she  hoped  she  might  sleep  till  Dooms- 
day." She  awoke  feverish  and  unrefresh- 
ed,  only  in  time  to  receive  a  summons  to 
attend  her  grandmamma.  The  excellent 
Lady  Isabella  was  dying.  She  had  been 
taken  ill  during  the  night,  and  had  used 

D 


46  DEAR  DUMMY. 

her  last  energies  to  persuade,  her  hus- 
band (who  had  grown  more  stern  and  harsh 
than  ever)  to  acknowledge  poor  Dummy  as 
his  grand-daughter. 

"  It  will  in  some  degree  repay  her,"  said 
the  old  lady,  "  for  the  mortifications  she  has 
endured  ;  it  may  curb  Margaret's  overbear- 
ing habits.  It  is  an  act  of  justice  to  one 
whose  undeviating  obedience  and  good  con- 
duct have,  I  hope,  in  some  degree  atoned 
in  your  eyes  for  her  parent's  fault.  Do  not 
turn  away  your  head,  my  dear  husband," 
she  continued  ;  "if  you  will  not  do  so  much 
for  the  dear  girl's  sake,  surely  you  will  for 
mine"  The  stern  man  yielded, and  before 
death  had  forever  sealed  those  mild  blue 
eyes,  which  never  opened  but  to  beam  a 
blessing  upon  all  around  her,  Mr.  Lloyd 
had  pressed  "  Dummy"  to  his  bosom,  and 
called  her  his  "Child." 

Margaret  was  so  mortified  that  she  refus- 
ed to  acknowledge  her  cousin  as  a  relative, 
and  was  cruel  enough  to  omit  no  opportu- 
nity of  hinting  at  her  mother's  misconduct. 


DEAR  DUMMY.  47 

But  this  system  could  not  last  forever ;  God 
would  not  permit  it ;  the  cloud  only  con- 
cealed the  sunshine.  Margaret  married  a 
gay,  glittering,  fashionable,  careless  man, 
and  in  a  very  few  years  she  found  herself 
the  mother  of  two  children,  deserted  by 
her  husband,  and  without  the  means  of  sup- 
porting either  herself  or  them.  This  was 
indeed  a  change  !  Dummy  remained  with 
Mr.  Lloyd  until  his  death,  and  a  little  be- 
fore that  event  occurred,  she  received  an 
extraordinary  addition  to  her  fortune  by  the 
death  of  her  father,  of  whom  she  had  never 
heard  until  apprised  by  his  executors  of  her 
wealth,  which  he  had  accumulated  in  a  dis- 
tant part  of  India.  I  forgot  to  mention 
that  she  married  before  her  cousin  ;  and  it 
was  a  pleasant  thing  to  see  the  stern  harsh 
features  of  the  venerable  old  gentleman  re- 
lax into  a  child-like  smile  when  Dummy's 
little  Isabella  would  climb  his  knee,  or,  in 
its  lisping  voice,  ask  its  ever-silent  mamma 
"  Why  she  did  not  talk  ?  "  I  have  written 
"  ever-silent ;  "  perhaps  I  should  have  writ- 


48  DEAR  DUMMY. 

ten  " ever-eloquent,"  for  her  good  works, 
her  benevolence,  her  charities,  spoke  trum- 
pet-tongued  unto  the  world.  Margaret  and 
her  cousin  had  long  ceased  to  be  even  ac- 
quainted, until  the  misfortunes  of  the  for- 
mer !  then  Dummy  nobly  forgave  the  past, 
and  wrote  to  her  as  follows : — 

"  We  were  friends  in  youth,  dear  Marga- 
ret ;  let  us  be  so  in  age.  My  Isabella  de- 
sires sisters ;  let  me  teach  your  little  ones 
to  be  sisters  to  her.  My  husband  is  busied 
in  state  affairs,  and  I  am  lonely.  Will  you 
not  come  and  live  with  me,  so  that  I  may 
be  no  longer  solitary  in  this  large  house  ? 
You  shall  talk  to  me  of  your  dear  grand- 
mother ;  and  I — you  know  /  can  listen. 
Come,  and  be  to  me  again  a  friend ;  the  re- 
membrance of  our  very  early  days  will  bring 
them  back  to  us  again.  You  will  be,  as  in- 
deed you  ever  were,  my  beloved  Margaret 
— and  I  will  be,  what  I.  was  so  long,  and 
ever  hope  to  be,  your 

<  Dear  Dummy  ! »  n 


ROSE. 


Wejie  you  ever  at  Brookland,  dear  read- 
er ?  If  you  were,  I  think  you  will  agree 
with  me,  that  there  is  no  spot  in  all  the 
country  round,  so  lovely;  sheltered  as  it  is, 
on  the  north  side,  by  hills  crowned  with 
trees,  and  their  sides  adorned  with  orchards 
of  fruit  trees,  covered,  as  they  are  now,  with 
blossoms  of  every  hue,  whose  odors  fill 
the  valley;— while  far  away,  on  the  south 
side,  may  be  seen  the  tall  spires  of  a 
lovely  city,  emerging,  as  it  were,  from  the 
beautiful  river  which  is  quietly  sleeping  be- 
neath it. 

But  it  was  not  of  the  city,  or  the  town, 
of  which  I  was  going  to  speak,  but  of  a 
charming  little  girl, — the  kind  and  gentle 
Rose,  who  is  as  blooming  and  fresh  as  the 
flower  that  bears  her  name.  Now  every 
body  loves  Rose,  not  so  much  for  her  bright 


50  ROSE. 

sparkling  eyes  and  beautiful  face,  as  for 
her  kind  and  loving  disposition.  No  one 
that  ever  looked  upon  her  beaming  coun- 
tenance, or  listened  to  her  dovelike  voice, 
could  forget  her, — if  not  made  happier, 
and  even  better. 

Rose  had  a  little  dog  she  called  Tray, 
(which  she  thought  came  from  a  French 
word  meaning  three,)  because  of  three 
coal-black  spots  he  had,  just  between  his 
ears.  Tray  loved  Rose  more  than  any 
thing  in  the  world,  and  followed  her  wher- 
ever she  went,  and  was  as  faithful  a  dog  as 
ever  served  a  little  mistress.  And  she  too, 
loved  the  dog,  because  he  served  her  faith- 
fully, and  also  because  of  the  pleasing 
and  grateful  remembrances  associated  with 
him.  True,  he  was  pretty  and  very  cun- 
ning, and  could  do  many  exceedingly  won- 
derful things,  and  had  such  sportive  ways, 
that  Rose  loved  him  for  these  too.  But, 
as  I  said  before,  she  valued  him  most  for 
his  kind  services  which  he  had  rendered 
her  many  times.     He  once  saved  her  dear 


ROSE.  51 

pet  canary  from  the  claws  of  old  pussy-cat ; 
and  another  time  he  plunged  into  the  deep- 
est part  of  the  brook,  and  brought  out  her 
gold  pencil,  which  she  one  day  let  fall  by 
accident  into  it ;  and  besides  many  other 
kind  things  which  he  did,  he  once  saved 
the  family  from  a  serious  fire,  by  his  vigi- 
lance and  timely  warning  ;  he  was  a  good 
watch-dog  as  well  as  playmate. 

Now  the  place  where  Rose  lived  was 
called  Brookland  because  of  a  lovely  stream 
of  water  which  flowed  into  the  valley,  wa- 
tering the  flowers  that  grew  near  it,  danc- 
ing, and  singing  sweet  songs  to  all  that  had 
ears  to  hear,  and  eyes  to  gaze  upon  its  frol- 
icksome  gambols,  till  it  reached  the  basin, 
where,  with  a  sudden  splash  and  a  whirl, 
it  would  sprinkle  the  flowers  and  green 
turf  with  sparkling  drops,  and  then,  with 
a  quiet  smile  and  gently  murmuring  song, 
scamper  off,  dancing  and  splashing  over 
the  smooth  pebbles,  till  it  was  lost  among 
the  trees  and  shrubs  that  grew  in  the  valley. 

Now  in  the  midst  of  this  garden,  and 


52  ROSE. 

just  by  the  brook,  there  was  an  ancient 
tree,  which,  by  its  size  and  exceeding 
beauty,  reminded  one  of  the  trees  of  Par- 
adise. Its  limbs,  which  were  covered  with 
leaves  and  blossoms,  hung  over  the  brook, 
and  by  a  graceful  waving  to  and  fro  in  the 
breeze,  gently  fanned  it,  ruffling  the  sur- 
face into  little  dancing  waves,  which  gave 
it  the  appearance  of  life,  and  which  glit- 
tered in  the  sun  like  sparkling  stones. 

But,  as  I  said,  this  tree  was  very  large, 
and  was  looked  upon  by  Rose  as  a  sort  of 
guardian  spirit  to  the  stream  that  watered 
her  little  Paradise.  Here,  beneath  its  shade, 
she,  with  her  kind  little  companion,  used  to 
sit  for  hours  musing,  just  as  you  now  see 
her  in  the  picture;  sometimes  she  would  talk 
to  her  little  dog — but  more  to  the  birds  and 
flowers,  for  these  too  were  her  companions, 
and  gave  her  sweet  delight.  She  looks  al- 
most sad — but  she  is  not  sad, — she  is  only 
serious,  as  all  true  lovers  of  nature  are  apt  to 
be  when  alone  ;  for  it  is  then  that  the  mind, 
even  of  children,  soars  upwards  to  the  Di- 


ROSE.  53 

vine  Creator,  and  desires  to  unite  itself  with 
Him.  It  is  the  spirit  of  God  which  flows 
through  all  created  things,  blessing  and 
filling  it  with  its  own  pure  life. 

No  one  disputed  the  goodness  of  Rose ; 
every  body  said  she  was  good  as  she  was 
pretty  ;  and  every  body  loved  her,  which  is 
not  always  the  case,  when  children  are  good, 
or  seem  to  be  ;  perhaps  the  reason  is  that 
they  are  not  really  as  good  as  they  seem,  for 
even  little  children  are  sometimes  inclined 
to  put  on  an  external  appearance  of  good- 
ness, which  is  not  truly  their  own. 

Have  you  not  seen  some  of  your  associ- 
ates, very  kind,  polite,  and  generous  to 
strangers,  or  to  those  who  are  in  the  habit  of 
flattering  them,  but  very  unkind  and  selfish 
with  their  brothers  and  sisters,  or  their  inti- 
mate friends?  now  this  is  not  real  goodness, 
but  only  the  appearance  of  it ;  it  is  a  kind 
of  deception,  which  makes  people  hypocrit- 
ical, when  they  grow  to  be  men  and  women; 
and  unless  they  put  it  away,  and  are  willing 
to  receive  the  love  of  real  goodness  and 


54  ROSE. 

truth,  it  will  cause  much  suffering  in  after 
life.  Every  one  is  apt  to  think  himself 
good,  if  he  can  appear  so  to  others;  and 
so  it  is  with  those  who  are  always  flattered  ; 
they  think  they  must  be  good,  because  every 
body  tells  them  so,  and  seems  to  love  them; 
they  do  not  look  into  their  hearts  at  all,  and 
of  course  they  cannot  see  their  faults. 
Children  should  begin  very  young  to  shun 
all  evils  as  sins  against  the  Lo?~d,  and  among 
the  most  wicked  things  to  be  shunned,  are 
hypocrisy  and  selfishness.  Our  Savior  in 
his  sermon  on  the  mount,  said  :  "  Blessed 
are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God;" 
now  these  pure  in  heart,  must  refer  to  those 
who  have  put  away  evil  feelings  and 
thoughts. 

Our  Lord  says  again,  "  Blessed  are  the 
peace-makers,  for  they  shall  be  called  the 
children  of  God."  This  is  very  plain  lan- 
guage, and  all  those  who  read  this  book, 
will  understand  who  are  meant  by  peace- 
makers. 

Cultivate  a  true  love  for  your  compan- 


ROSE.  55 

ions,  wherever  they  are,  and  always  try  to 
do  them  good.  If  they  are  disposed  to  be 
quarrelsome  and  selfish,  it  is  your  duty  not 
to  abandon  them,  but  to  try  every  means 
in  your  power  to  help  them  overcome  their 
evil  passions,  and  in  this  way  you  will  im- 
prove yourself  in  a  wonderful  manner. 

But  to  return  to  my  sweet  and  gentle 
Rose,  who  is  I  conceive,  a  good  example 
of  what  all  children  should  try  to  be,  be- 
cause she  is  not  one  of  those  selfish  little 
girls,  who  think  only  of  their  own  happi- 
ness and  comfort ; — she  tries  to  do  all  the 
kind  things  she  can  to  make  others  happy 
about  her,  and  she  does  not  do  this,  for  the 
sake  of  showing  herself  in  the  best  light, 
to  make  people  think  she  is  good.  She 
does  not  put  on  a  cold  and  formal  manner, 
which  is  sometimes  seen  in  those  who 
make  their  external  life  conform  to  what  has 
been  often  taught  as  law,  and  gospel,  while 
the  internal  mind  and  heart,  has  been  en- 
tirely neglected,  or  allowed  to  grow  in  its 
own  selfishness.     We  all  may  learn  very 


56 


ROSE. 


soon,  that  few,  if  any,  arrive  at  perfection 
in  this  world;  and  every  one  must  see,  if 
they  look  into  their  own  heart,  that  evil  is 
mixed  with  all  their  good,  and  without  di- 
vine help,  Ave  can  do  nothing ;  this  should 
make  us  humble  and  forgiving  to  others. 
It  was  thus  our  little  Rose  became. 


THE  BIRD'S  NEST. 

BY  MISS  COLMAN. 

"  Come  sister  Kate,  I  tell  you  true, 

I  saw  them  fly  away; 
I'm  sure  I  know  the  very  place; 

I  found  it  yesterday. 

For  as  I  walked  with  softest  steps, 
And  with  the  gentlest  care, 

Afraid  lest  I  should  crush  the  flowers 
That  grew  so  thickly  there; 

I  heard  a  bird  begin  to  trill 

A  joyous  morning  song, 
And  thinking  if  I  kept  quite  still, 

He  would  his  lay  prolong, 


58 


I  listened  almost  breathlessly, 
And  turned  my  head  to  look; 

And  there  upon  the  branch  he  stood, 
Which  stretches  o'er  the  brook. 


And  oh,  I  wish  dear  sister  Kate, 

That  I  to  you  could  tell, 
How  very  bright  the  sun  did  shine, 

How  sweet  the  flowers  did  smell. 


And  how  the  young  grass  gently  waved, 
Beneath  the  fresh  green  trees, 

That  humbly  bowed  their  stately  heads, 
To  the  hymn  of  the  morning  breeze. 


And  how  the  sunny,  gladsome  brook, 
Rippling  so  blithely  along, 

Sounded  to  me  like  the  echo  sweet, 
Of  the  flowers'  whispered  song. 


59 


But  now  let  us  go,  with  gentle  steps, 

And  peep  at  the  little  birds, 
And  we  will  not  speak,  lest  they  should  fear, 

E'en  our  most  loving  words. 


I'll  point  out  the  nest  with  this  ivy  branch, 
That  they  need  not  see  my  hand, 

And  then  we  shall  not  frighten  them, 
So  very  still  we'll  stand." 


THE  CHILDREN'S  SPRING. 

ALTERED  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Not  far  from  the  house  of  Henry's  and 
Adelaide's  father,  there  was  a  charming 
place,  where  they  often  went  to  amuse 
themselves.  Lovely  pine  trees  and  acacias 
stretched  their  boughs  over  the  entrance  of 
the  grove,  near  which  stood  an  ancient 
vaulted  building,  composed  of  large  stones, 
overgrown  with  moss  and  ferns.  Here  the 
children  played  from  time  immemorial,  and 
always  longed  to  know  what  was  within 
this  place.  The  entrance  was  secured  by 
a  heavy  iron  door,  and  there  was  only  two 
rather  small  round  apertures,  instead  of 
windows..  If  any  one  ventured  to  look 
in  through  one  of  these  holes,  nothing  but 
deep  darkness  met  the  eye,  and  all  was 
silent  there,  except  the  dropping  of  the 
spring,  as  it  trickled  over  the  rocks. 


61 


The  country  people  used  to  say,  there 
were  many  children  living  down  beneath 
the  vault ;  but  none  of  them  had  ever  seen 
one  of  the  number.  If,  however,  any  one 
cried  through  the  holes  or  apertures,  "  Hen- 
ry! "  they  were  answered  immediately  in 
the  same  tone,  "  Henry  !  "  or,  "  Louisa !  " 
the  name  of  "Louisa"  was  heard  in  re- 
turn. 

"  What  can  be  in  this  strange  old  place?" 
said  Adelaide  one  day,  as  she  stretched  her 
little  head  through  one  of  the  holes.  "Are 
any  children  there  ? "  cried  she.  "  Any 
children  there  ? "  was  the  answer.  And 
thus  she  carried  on  her  sport  at  the  spring 
for  a  long  time,  first  asking  one  question, 
and  then  another ;  the  echo  repeating  the 
sound  of  her  voice. 

Henry,  meantime,  had  gone  forward  to 
the  place  where  he  knew  that  bilberries 
grew  in  abundance ;  and  went  on  further 
and  further,  till  at  last  he  laid  himself  down 
under  a  great  oak  tree.  He  had  run  a 
great  way  with  his  play-fellows,  and  made 


62 


himself  hot  and  tired ;  and  the  place  was 
so  cool,  that  he  stretched  himself  out  upon 
the  grass,  and  fell  asleep.  He  dreamed 
that  he  had  lost  his  sister  Adelaide,  and 
had  sought  her  far  and  near.  He  thought, 
in  his  dream,  that  he  met  a  woman  dressed 
in  strange,  old-fashioned  garments,  who 
said  to  him,  "  Do  you  seek  your  sister? 
Behold  that  star: — go  in  that  direction,  and 
you  Avill  find  her."  He  was  running  has- 
tily towards  the  star,  and  had  seen  some- 
thing white  at  a  distance,  when  a  wood- 
pecker, hacking  with  his  beak  at  the  old 
oak  tree,  awoke  him  with  his  noise,  in  the 
midst  of  his  dream. 

He  had  been  asleep  a  long  time  in  the 
cool  shade ;  but  when  he  awoke  he  was 
refreshed,  and  sprang  up  quickly,  and  ran 
as  fast  as  he  could  to  the  vault ;  but  Ade- 
laide was  not  there.  Then  he  called  her, 
but  she  did  not  answer  him ;  he  sought  her 
right  and  left,  but  she  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  Where  might  he  seek  her,  for  she 
was  not  there — nor  there  ! 


63 


Then  Henry,  overcome  with  the  heat  of 
the  sun,  sat  himself  down  and  leaned  his 
head  against  a  tree  to  rest.  He  soon  fell 
again  into  a  profound  sleep ;  and  again  he 
dreamed  that  the  kind  little  woman  came 
to  him,  and  said,  "Do  you  see  that  star  ? 
— follow  that ;  it  will  lead  you  to  the  Chris- 
tians' strong  hold ; — there  will  you  find 
your  sister." 

Then  Henry  followed  the  star,  which 
immediately  grew  brighter  and  brighter, 
till  it  came  and  stood  over  the  vaulted 
building.  There  stood  Adelaide,  her  face 
radiant  with  a  new  light,  and  her  dress 
shining  like  the  stars.  "Where  have  you 
been,  my  sister  ?  "  said  Henry,  "  and  where 
did  you  get  that  beautiful  garment,  and  the 
charming  little  casket  you  hold  in  your 
hand?" 

Then  Adelaide  told  him  all  that  had  be- 
fallen her  since  they  parted; — how  that  she, 
after  he  left  her,  was  curious  to  know  what 
was  within  the  vault,  and  had  leaned  so 
far  through  the  aperture  that  she  lost  her 


64 

balance,  so  that  she  could  not  recover  her- 
self, and  so  fell  in,  and  for  some  time  was 
quite  stunned  by  the  blow  which  she  got 
on  her  head  in  the  fall;  but  when  she  came 
to  herself,  she  was  lying  on  the  floor  of  a 
great  wide  hall,  which  was  covered  with 
carpets  of  various  colors ;  and  though  there 
were  no  windows,  yet  this  hall  was  lighter 
than  the  brightest  day;  for,  in  the  high 
arched  roof,  and  on  the  walls,  there  were 
innumerable  bright  lights,  and  sparkling 
stones  of  all  shapes  and  colors,  some  white 
and  transparent,  others  blue,  green,  and 
red.  Beautiful  flowers  grew  here  and 
there,  in  every  niche  and  corner  of  the 
walls;  plants,  with  magnificent  foliage, 
crept  up  the  pillars  which  supported  the 
ceiling,  forming  wreaths  and  festoons. 

In  wonder  and  astonishment,  Adelaide 
contemplated  the  scene  before  her,  and 
knew  not  which  way  to  turn,  when  a  beau- 
tiful woman  and  two  lovely  children  in 
shining  garments  stood  before  her.  For 
a  little  space,  Adelaide  was  troubled,  and 


65 

looking  down  upon  her  mean  apparel, 
which  was  torn  and  soiled, -was  unable  to 
raise  her  eyes,  or  utter  a  single  word  to 
the  lovely  beings  who  had  so  suddenly  pre- 
sented themselves  before  her. 

"  Thou  hast  been  rather  too  curious,  my 
child,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  soft,  sweet  voice; 
"  too  great  curiosity  never  goes  unpunish- 
ed ;  but  come  with  me,  and  I  will  find  you 
a  more  befitting  dress,  and  a  bandage  for 
your  wound  which  I  perceive  on  your 
arm."  Adelaide  saw  now  for  the  first 
time,  that  her  arm  bled  and  her  clothes 
were  wet.  The  lady  conducted  her  to  a 
charming  little  apartment,  where  she  gave 
her  some  nice  dry  clothes,  and  bound  up 
her  arm  with  a  red  ribbon. 

Now  Adelaide  was  so  surprised  at  what 
had  happened  to  her,  that  she  could  not 
trust  herself  to  speak,  to  enquire  where 
she  was.  But  the  lady  said  after  she  was 
dressed — "  Take  courage,  dear  child,  noth- 
ing worse  shall  happen  to  you ; — come 
with  me :  I  will  show  you  some  companions 


66 


who  will  please  you."  Then  she  opened 
the  door  of  another  hall,  as  large  as  the  first, 
which  was  apparently  lighted  by  bright 
shining  stones,  like  dazzling  stars.  Many 
little  children  were  playing  in  this  hall. 
Boys  rode  on  wooden  horses,  or  shot  at  a 
mark,  or  performed  various  feats  of  strength. 
Little  girls  had  great  dolls,  which  looked 
like  real  people,  and  could  go  from  one 
end  of  the  hall  to  the  other.  These  dolls 
had  their  tiny  houses,  with  rooms,  furnish- 
ed with  chairs,  tables,  curtains,  sofas,  &c. 
Birds  with  long  tails,  of  the  most  delicate 
plumage,  flew  from  branch  to  branch,  and 
flower  to  flower ;  beautiful  butterflies  flit- 
ted about  the  flcwers,  and  little  antelopes 
skipped  up  and  down  the  wide  hall,  inquis- 
itively popping  their  heads  into  the  win- 
dows of  the  baby-houses,  or  fondly  licking 
the  hands  of  the  children. 

The  two  little  children  that  Adelaide  saw 
first,  invited  her  to  play  with  them ;  she 
joined  them  timidly,  but  soon  become  quite 
at  home  with  them,  and  played  very  happi- 


67 

ly  with  them  for  some  time.  She  learned 
many  new  plays  ;  and  more  than  that,  she 
learned  to  know  and  love  real  benevolence 
and  true  christian  charity — for  all  here  in 
this  house  lived  in  love  one  to  the  other. 
No  one  took  pleasure  in  selfishness,  but  all 
acted  in  perfect  union,  each  seeking  the 
others'  happiness,  and  in  that  way  they  were 
all  made  happy.  "  What  a  heaven  this 
would  be,  if  every  household  and  family 
could  be  ruled  by  this  law  of  love ;  it 
would  be  felt  every  where,  and  our  earth 
would  soon  become  a  Paradise." 

At  length  Adelaide  recollected  her  par- 
ents, and  she  thought  it  likely,  that  they 
would  be  very  unhappy  during  her  ab- 
sence, and  her  brother  Henry  would  be 
seeking  her  in  vain ;  then  she  felt  a  desire 
to  leave  this  beautiful  place,  for  she  felt  too 
that  she  was  not  good  enough  to  remain 
with  them  always,  for  she  felt  she  had  many 
selfish  desires  and  troublesome  thoughts 
remaining  in  her  heart,  which  would  soon 
disturb  these  pure  beings,  and  as  she  looked 


68 

sad,  the  lady  observing  it  said  to  her,  "  Do 
you  wish  to  go  home,  my  child? "  Adelaide 
repled,  "  Yes."  Then  the  lady  rejoined, 
"  I  will  show  you  the  way,  but  you  must 
first  choose  something  to  take  with  you  as 
a  remembrance  of  me  !"  Adelaide  thank- 
ed her,  and  looked  round  the  vast  apart- 
ment with  all  its  precious  things,  unable  to 
make  any  request  or  to  open  her  mouth. 
At  length  her  eyes  fell  on  some  sparkling 
mountain  crystals,  with  which  the  children 
had  been  playing ;  she  took  up  one  of 
them,  and  was  gazing  upon  it  with  admir- 
ing eyes.  Then  the  lady  said,  "You  are 
modest,  my  child,  I  Avill  give  you  something 
better ;"  and  placed  in  her  hands  a  small 
casket,  beautifully  cut  out  of  green  stone, 
in  the  form  of  acanthus  leaves.  Adelaide 
thanked  her  kindly,  and  after  bidding  her 
little  companions  farewell,  followed  the 
lady,  who  ]ed  her  to  a  door  which  opened 
into  a  long  narrow  passage ;  this  passage 
was  lighted  by  various  little  stars,  and  was 
followed   by  another   longer,   and   not  so 


69 


light,  for  it  was  only  lighted  by  one  star, 
which  shone  at  the  farthest  end.  "I  can  go 
no  farther,"  said  the  lady,  "but  follow  that 
star  ;  it  Avill  guide  you  through  this  gloomy, 
narrow  way,  to  the  point  you  desire." 

Adelaide  made  all  the  haste  she  could, 
and  soon  reached  the  opening.  There  she 
saw  the  evening  star  bright  in  the  west,  but 
could  not  tell  where  she  was.  She  looked 
round  in  the  dim  uncertain  twilight,  and 
started  with  terror  at  hearing  a  noise  in  the 
bushes;  it  was  her  brother  Henry,  who 
came  with  hasty  steps,  and  cried  out,  "Ah! 
are  you  my  sister,  or  are  you  not?"  and  he 
began  to  weep  ;  but  when  she  assured  him 
that  it  was  indeed  Adelaide  who  stood  be- 
fore him,  he  went  on  to  say,  "How  long  I 
have  been  seeking  you!  where  can  you 
have  been  ?  where  did  you  get  that  beauti- 
ful dress,  shining  like  a  star  ?  and  what 
have  you  got  in  your  hand  ?  "  "  Show 
me  the  way  home,  Henry  dear,"  said  Ad- 
elaide, "  and  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it." 

At  these  words  Henry  awoke,  and  be- 


70 


hold,  his  sister  was  by  his  side.  She  too, 
had  been  seeking  him,  all  over  hill  and 
valley,  and  in  every  nook  and  glen ;  and 
now  they  both  found  themselves  near  the 
borders  of  the  forest,  but  they  soon  reached 
the  path  which  led  to  the  open  fields,  and 
to  their  father's  house.  But  the  sun  had 
gone  down,  and  the  little  stars  were  begin- 
ning to  appear,  one  after  another,  when 
they  reached  their  door  ;  and  there,  to  the 
astonishment  of  all,  Henry  related  all  he 
saw  and  heard  in  his  wonderful  dream. 

Next  day  the  children  were  curious  to 
see  what  was  within  this  most  singular 
structure  ;  and,  on  removing  the  large  stone 
which  closed  the  entrance,  behold,  there 
was  a  deep  spring  of  water,  and  beyond 
that,  all  was  dark ;  but  there  was  an  echo 
which  would  repeat  their  words  several 
times.  There  is  little  doubt  that  this  vault 
had  been  the  dwelling  of  some  good  Chris- 
tians in  past  ages,  when  they  were  obliged 
for  the  sake  of  their  religion,  to  seek  shel- 
ter in  caves  and  dungeons. 


LINES 
ON  THE  LATE  CONCERT  BY  THE  BLIND. 

Sweet  were  the  tones  that  fell 

On  the  wrapt  ear  5 
Gentle  their  rise  and  swell, 

Joyous  and  clear. 

Voices  of  children  filled 

High  the  arched  dome  ; 
Singing  of  Heaven  willed 

Comforts  of  home. 

Chanting  of  pleasant  things, 

Flowers  and  bees, 
Birds  on  their  golden  wings, 

Fountains  and  trees. 


72  LINES  ON  THE  LATE 

Lauding  their  native  land, 
Grateful  and  gay ; 

Who  were  this  merry  band? 
Answer,  1  pray. 

Children  of  sable  night, 

Witless  of  day, 
Keft  of  the  sunny  light, 

To  blindness  a  prey. 

Long  were  the  weary  hours, 

Grief  and  despair 
Crushing  their  vital  powers, 

Laden  with  care. 

Childhood,  its  buoyant  flight, 
Filled  with  dismay, 

Ever  a  flood  of  light, 
Not  e'en  a  ray. 

Childhood,  in  trammels  bound, 
Darkness  and  sorrow 

Filling  the  air  around, 
No  hope  the  morrow . 


CONCERT  BY  THE  BLIND. 

Sudden  a  guide  is  seen 

For  the  dull  gloom, 
Breaking  the  outer  screen 

Of  infancy's  tomb. 

Leading  to  fairest  lands, 

Innocence,  youth, 
Teaching  these  lonely  bands 

Wisdom  and  truth. 

Showing  benighted  hearts 

Nature's  gay  day, 
Chanting  in  tuneful  parts 

Gratitude's  lay. 

Bringing  to  smiling  plains 

And  living  waters, 
Rich  in  melodious  strains, 

These  sons  and  daughters. 

Crowns  on  the  Hero's  head, 

Laurel  twined  fall, 
Where'er  Howe's  footsteps  tread, 

Wild  flowers  all. 


73 


LISETTE  r 

OR 

FAIRY   FAVORS 


Ithocles.     This  little  spark — 
Calantha.    A  toy! 

Ithocles.    Love  feasts  on  toya,  • 

For  Cupid  is  a  child. 

John  Ford. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIRST, 

HOW  LISETTE  LIVED  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  FLORAINE. 

Were  the  Guide-books  wrong  when 
they  said  that  in  all  the  country  round 
there  was  not  a  spot  so  pretty  as  Floraine? 
or  of  all  the  travellers  that  journeyed 
thither  to  verify  its  fame,  was  every  one 
bewitched  ?  One  of  these  two  things 
must  have  been  the  case ;  for  no  one  that 
ever  returned  was  able  to  say  one  word 
in  praise  of  the  village  or  its  valley. 

The  Guide-books  certainly  were  right; 


LISETTE.  75 

they  gave  even  a  classified  catalogue  of 
the  beauties  of  the  neighborhood  ;  but  then 
the  chief  beauty  was  omitted, — there  was 
no  mention  of  Lisette,  and  nobody  went 
to  Floraine  without  seeing  Lisette ;  and 
with  Lisette  to  look  at,  who  could  have 
time  to  waste  over  the  valley  ?  And  so 
the  travellers  came  back,  and  could  not 
tell  whether  Floraine  was  a  desert  or  a  gar- 
den, though  they  were  quite  sure  it  must  be 
a  paradise,  or  else  it  could  not  hold  a  Li- 
sette. 

They  call  her  Lisette,  but  the  very  old 
men  of  the  village  positively  declared  that 
her  proper  baptismal  name  had  been  Eliza- 
beth. Not  that  it  at  all  required  an  old 
man  to  remember  when  Lisette  had  been 
baptised  ;  only  no  one  but  a  very  old  man 
would  have  thought  of  remembering  any- 
thing that  could  change  the  merry  and  kind 
Lisette  into  a  prim  and  stately  Elizabeth. 

Well,  but  Floraine — this  paradise.  Yes, 
the  travellers  thought  right, — a  paradise  it 
was.      The  very  philosophers   called  it  a 


76  LISETTE. 

kingdom  of  flowers,  although  they  knew 
no  more  of  flowers  than  that  one  might  be 
gamosepalous,  another  polypetalous ;  but  a 
kingdom  of  flowers  it  must  be,  for  its  name 
was  derived  from  Latin  Avords  to  that  ef- 
fect, and  had  it  been  another  Zahara,  the 
classical  authority  would  have  clothed  it, 
in  their  eyes,  with  everlasting  verdure. 
The  ignorant  villagers  shewed  their  imper- 
fect education  (men  were  less  enlightened 
in  those  days)  by  calling  it  a  queendom. 
Flowers  filled  the  valley,  of  every  hue  and 
odor ;  scattered  by  the  mountain  side, 
crowding  round  the  brook,  and  Lisette  was 
their  queen,  the  fairest  of  them  all.  And 
well  did  the  queen  love  her  subjects,  and 
fondly  did  her  light  heart  beat  when  she  sur- 
veyed her  beauteous  empire.  Seldom  was 
she  happier  than  when  roaming  among 
flowers.  Pretty  Lisette !  Never  was  she 
prettier  than  with  flowers  in  her  hair,  her 
nut-brown  hair,  that  Nature — that  best  of 
all  hair-dressers,  careless  as  she  is — had 
curled  so  prettily,  and  tossed  so  negligently 


LISETTE.  77 

behind  her  neck  and  over  her  white  shoul- 
ders. Lisette's  eyes,  what  color  were  they? 
Never  any  youth  tried  to  discover — and 
many  did  try — that  had  not  his  heart  to  pay 
as  a  penalty  for  his  curiosity.  Nobody 
ever  knew  exactly  the  color  of  Lisette's 
eyes.  They  were  not  black — people  thought 
they  were  dark — but  they  were  so  spark- 
ling and  full  of  meaning  that  they  in- 
variably set  people  thinking  of  something 
else  when  they  intended  to  satisfy  them- 
selves as  to  color.  Nobody  at  all  classical 
could  look  at  her  lips  without  feeling  the 
force  of  the  assertion  that  from  such  lips 
the  shape  of  Cupid's  bow  was  modelled ; 
and  then  what  arrows  did  she  shoot  from 
them !  Every  word  went  to  the  hearer's 
heart.  And  her  face, — nobody  that  had 
ever  heard  of  Lavater  could  feel  that  she 
was  otherwise  than  as  good  as  she  was  pretty; 
but  the  villagers,  who  knew  nothing  of  Cu- 
pid or  Lavater,  contented  themselves  with 
believing  that  she  was  a  sort  of  wonder 
upon  earth,  and  that,  as  all  her  thoughts 


78  LISETTE. 

and  actions  were  as  beautiful  as  herself, 
they  ought  to  be  proud  of  her,  and  love 
her  ;  and  so  all  the  inhabitants  of  Floraine 
were  very,  very  proud  of  Lisette,  and  all, 
especially  the  young  men,loved  her  heartily. 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND. 

HOW  LISETTE  SA.T  BESIDE  THE  BROOK,  AND  WHAT 
BEFELL  HER    THERE. 

Now  there  was  a  little  brook  that  danced, 
and  bubbled,  and  sparkled  through  the 
valley  of  Floraine ;  and  Lisette  loved  the 
brook  because  it  loved  her  flowers,  and 
watered  them,  and  would  sprinkle  them 
with  little  diamonds  to  punish  them  if  they 
came  too  near  its  edge.  And  Lisette  used 
to  sit  beside  the  brook,  and  watch  its  sport- 
ing, and  listen  to  its  babble ;  and  then  the 
birds  would  sing  around  her,  and  she  would 
wonder  what  the  brook  and  the  birds  were 
•talking  about  together. 


LISETTE.  79 

Now,  one  day,  as  she  sat  thus  listening, 
and  the  birds  were  silent  because  a  cloud 
was  coming  over  the  sun,  she  thought  the 
brook  addressed  its  talk  to  her ;  and  she 
smiled  to  think  herself  so  silly,  and  her 
smile  was  like  the  sunbeam,  only  the  beam 
was  about  to  be  blotted  by  a  dark  cloud  ; 
but  so  had  Lisette's  smiles  never  been,  and 
there  seemed  no  reason  why  they  should 
be  now.  Yet,  though  she  laughed  at  her- 
self, she  listened  to  the  brook,  and  it  seem- 
ed to  say  to  her,  "  Lisette  !  Lisette  !  follow 
me,  Lisette!  Lisette!  Lisette!  follow  me!  " 

Lisette  listened  so  long  that  she  forgot  it 
was  silly  to  do  so,  and  laughed  then  at  the 
brook  instead  of  at  herself ;  and  while  it 
still  called  to  her,  "  Lisette  !  Lisette!  "  she 
still  laughed  at  it,  and  let  it  dance  away, 
and  did  not  follow. 

Presently  there  came  a  little  angry  breeze 
that  the  cloud  brought  with  it,  or  that  the 
brook  called  in  as  an  ally,  and  shook  Li- 
sette's white  dress,  and  a  rose  fell  out  of 
her  bosom  into  the  brook ;  then  the  brook 


80  LISETTE. 

danced  on,  laughing  in  its  turn,  and  bear- 
ing the  rose  onward  in  its  course. 

Now,  had  it  been  simply  a  rose,  Lisette 
would  have  let  the  tiresome  brook  dance 
away  with  it,  rather  than  follow  and  give 
up  her  point ;  but  then  that  rose  Silvan  had 
given  to  her,  and  she  had  worn  it  in  her 
bosom,  and  she  would  wish  Silvan,  when 
she  passed  his  cottage  that  evening  to  see 
where  she  had  kept  it,  and — 

"Lisette!  Lisette!  now  you  follow  me!" 
seemed  the  brook  to  say  as,  half  angry, 
half  laughing,  the  mischievous  breeze  still 
fluttering  over  her  dress  and  her  brown 
hair,  she  hurried  to  recover  Silvan's  rose. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRD. 

HOW  LISETTE  FOLLOWED  IN  PURSUIT  OF  SILVAN'S 
ROSE. 

The  brook  seemed  to  laugh  so  heartily, 
that  Lisette  began  to  scold ;  and  then  the 
brook  seemed  sorry  for  what  it  had  done, 


LISETTE.  81 

and  its  waters  would  stop  with  the  rose  be- 
hind a  stone ;  but  when  Lisette  put  out  her 
hand  to  regain  the  flower,  away  it  would 
dance,  and  the  brook  laughed  more  noisily 
than  ever.  Thus  with  her  loose  dress  and 
hair  still  floating  on  the  breeze,  the  rose 
always  within  her  reach,  but  always  con- 
triving to  elude  her  grasp,  Lisette  followed 
until  Floraine  was  left  behind  her.  The 
country  now  around  seemed  desert,  but 
Lisette  saw  that  there  was,  at  any  rate,  one 
flower  in  it,  the  only  one  she  thought  of, 
and  that  still  danced  on  before. 

"  Lisette  !  Lisette  !  you  follow  me  now, 
Lisette  !  "  laughed  the  brook,  and  it  laughed 
soon  more  loudly  than  ever,  for  it  wandered 
among  rocks. 

Lisette  was  tired,  and  the  dark  cloud 
was  spreading  more  widely  over  the  blue 
sky,  and  the  mischievous  breeze  was  now 
swelling  into  a  storm  wind ;  but  how  could 
Lisette  turn  back,  when  each  step,  perhaps., 
would  put  Silvan' s  rose  in  her  possession  ? 
And  so  she  was  enticed  onwards  still. 


82  LISETTE. 

Soon  the  brook  passed  within  a  narrow 
cleft  of  rock,  where  there  was  no  room  for 
footpath  by  its  side.  But  then  the  stream 
was  here  so  very  smooth,  and  the  rose 
floated  along  so  slowly,  and  the  water  was 
so  shallow,  that  Lisette  felt  certain  she 
should  now  succeed  at  last,  if  she  would 
only  wet  her  feet.  She  did  not  hesitate  to 
enter  the  narrow  cleft,  and  was  within  an 
inch  of  accomplishing  her  hopes,  when 
the  breeze,  which  had  now  grown  into  a 
violent  hurricane,  forced  itself  into  the 
pass,  and  swept  the  flower  onward  in  its 
course. 

Lisette  gave  up  her  endeavors  in  despair, 
and  turned  to  go  back,  but  the  wind  rushed 
with  such  violence  into  the  narrow  cleft, 
that  she  had  not  strength  to  face  it ;  then 
Lisette  was  obliged  to  hasten  on  through 
the  shallow  stream  until  she  should  come 
to  the  other  side  of  the  pass,  and  be  shel- 
tered from  the  fury  of  the  storm. 

Suddenly  she  stood  once  more  on  open 
ground,  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  dark 


LISETTE.  83 

cloud  had  melted  from  the  sun,  which  shone 
around  her  with  a  splendor  she  had  never 
seen  before ;  a  tender  zephyr  only  sighed 
through  the  fissure  in  the  rock ,  the  brook 
stole  noiselessly  along  ;  and  she  stood  in  a 
valley  more  beautiful  by  far  even  than  her 
own  Floraine. 


CHAPTER  THE  FOURTH, 

HOW  LISETTE  GAINED  SOMETHING  BY  FOLLOWING 
THE  BROOK. 

Lisette  was  so  astonished,  that,  for  the 
moment,  she  even  forgot  her  rose.  Every 
body  had  told  her  there  was  no  other  such 
valley  as  Floraine,  and  she  had  fully  be- 
lieved it ;  but  here,  dearly  as  she  loved  her 
own  valley,  she  was  obliged  to  confess  the 
flowers  were  fairer,  the  air  more  perfumed 
by  their  sweet  odors,  and  the  charmed  eye 
more  dazzled  by  their  beauty.  The  emerald 
turf  even  was  softer ;  the  trees,  so  graceful 


84  LISETTE. 

in  their  outline  and  in  their  grouping,  were 
such  as  she  had  never  seen  before.  Fruits, 
whose  names  she  had  never  learned,  and 
more  delicious  to  the  eye  than  nectarines  or 
peaches,  hung  on  the  green  boughs  that 
bent  beneath  their  weight.  Birds  sang  such 
heavenly  melodies,  as  before  had  existed  in 
her  own  bright  fancy  only ;  and  as  they 
flew  from  branch  to  branch,  their  glorious 
plumage  glittered  in  the  sun  ;  and  the  brook 
seemed  now  like  glass, — at  one  time  swel- 
ling into  tiny  lakes,  and  rising  in  tall  foun- 
tain columns  until  it  broke  into  a  thousand 
rainbows, — then  winding  through  the  en- 
amelled turf,  falling  in  cascades  from  one 
terrace  to  another. 

While  Lisette  was  gazing  she  heard  some 
one  cough,  and  looking  round  discovered 
a  little  old  woman  at  her  elbow.  She  knew 
then  for  certain  that  she  was  upon  fairy 
ground,  and  that  a  fairy  Avas  before  her,  for 
she  was  quite  aware  of  the  peculiar  sym- 
pathy which  fairies  are  acknowledged  to 
possess. 


LISETTE.  85 

Lisette  had  never  done  any  thing  wrong, 
and  so,  her  conscience  being  clear,  felt  per- 
fectly at  ease  with  the  old  lady.  She  could 
not,  however,  help  expressing  her  admira- 
tion of  the  garden,  and  the  old  woman  told 
her  it  was  the  garden  of  love.  Lisette  won- 
dered that  such  an  ugly  genius  should  pre- 
side over  it,  but  doubted  not  she  was  a 
good  security  against  invasion ;  for  who, 
thought  she,  would  enter  into  a  garden  of 
love,  that  belonged  to  so  ugly  an  individ- 
ual? The  fairy,  probably,  did  not  guess 
her  thoughts,  for  she  continued  in  the  best 
of  tempers: — 

"  Every  one  of  these  flowers,"  said  she, 
"  is  a  love.  For  every  new  attachment  that 
is  formed  on  earth,  another  flower  springs 
up  ;  and  with  every  love  that  dies,  a  flower 
fades." 

"  No  wonder,  then,  that  the  perfume  is 
so  sweet,"  replied  Lisette. 

"  I  have  no  power  over  them,"  said  the 
old  woman ;  "we  fairies  made  the  garden 
for  our  own  delight,  and  as  we  cannot  kill 


86  LISETTE, 

the  love,  so  neither  can  we  kill  a  flower  ;  if 
we  pluck  its  blossom  it  is  formed  again." 

"Ah!"  said  Lisette,  "that  was  a  beau- 
tiful thought  to  plant  a  garden  on!" 

"Not  entirely,"  replied  the  fairy;  "as 
the  event  has  shewn  ;  for  we  mourn  more 
over  the  buds  that  are  blighted,  than  we  re- 
joice over  the  flowers  that  bloom.  And 
yet  we  let  the  garden  stay,  for  it  is  pleasant 
to  see  how  much  there  is  that  is  beautiful 
on  earth.  But  come  now,  daughter !  I 
wished  to  bring  you  hither  for  a  better  pur- 
pose than  to  talk.  The  fairies  all  love  you 
because  you  nurse  their  flowers  kindly,  and 
they  will  bestow  their  highest  favors  on 
you.  See,  I  know  all  these  blossoms,  and 
every  flower  that  tells  a  love  which  blooms 
for  you,  will  I  pluck  and  form  into  a  nose- 
gay. So  long  as  he  each  flower  represents 
is  faithful,  so  long  the  flower  will  bloom ; 
even  though  severed  from  its  stem,  it  fades 
but  with  his  love." 

"Aha!"  said  Lisette,  "then  point  me  out 
Silvan  here!" 


LISETTE.  87 

The  fairy  touched  a  beautiful  white  rose, 
and  was  about  to  pluck  it. 

"  Pluck  it  not !  Pluck  it  not !  "  cried 
Lisette  in  alarm. 

"It  will  be  formed  again,  my  child." 

"Nay,"  said  Lisette,  "but  I  will  not  have 
it  plucked;  let  me  have  rather  the  sweet 
rose  that  Silvan  gave  to  me :  his  touch,  his 
words,  his  blush  when  he  gave  it,  have 
clothed  it  with  a  greater  charm  than  all 
your  fairy  power  can  bestow  on  this!" 

"  See  you  not,"  said  the  old  woman, 
"that  the  brook  has  laid  it  at  your  feet?" 

Lisette  picked  it  up,  and  kissing  it  fondly, 
placed  it  in  her  bosom. 

"  Stay,"  said  the  fairy,  "  let  me  infuse 
then  into  this  rose  the  magic  quality." 

"  What!  will  you  make  Silvan's  rose  to 
last  forever?" 

"  So  long,"  smiled  the  fairy,  "as  his  love 
may  last." 

"Ay,  then,  forever,"  cried  Lisette  ;  "yes, 
yes, — that  do,  sweet  fairy ;  I  will  tell  you 
now,  he  confessed  his  passion  when  he  gave 


88  LISETTE. 

it  me  this  morning. — O  that  I  could  wear 
the  precious  flower  forever  in  my  bosom!  " 

The  fairy  breathed  upon  Silvan' s  rose, 
and  returned  it  to  Lisette,  who  restored  it 
to  its  place  in  ecstasy. 

Then  the  fairy  busied  herself  in  plucking 
the  other  flowers  that  had  blossomed  for 
Lisette  ; — Lisette  thought  she  would  never 
have  done,  so  many  hearts  did  she  possess; 
and  as  the  old  woman  brought  to  her  a 
nosegay  that  both  hands  could  scarcely  en- 
compass,— "Ah!"  said  she,  "  never  was  a 
maiden  yet  that  filled  my  garden  with  so 
many  flowers  as  you  have  done,  Lisette  !  " 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTH, 

HOW  LISETTE  RETURNED  TO   FLORAINE   AND    WAS 
HAPPY. 

Lisette  could  not  miss  her  way  back, 
for  the  course  of  the  brook  that  she  had 
followed  was  her  guide.     The  storm  had 


LISETTE.  89 

passed  over,  and  the  ground  was  yet  wet 
with  the  rain  that  had  fallen ;  and  when 
Lisette  had  passed  over  the  desert  part  of 
the  way,  she  found  the  sun  glistening  so 
brightly  in  the  rain-drops  on  the  trees,  and 
the  perfume  of  the  floAvers  was  so  fresh,  all 
nature  so  sweet  and  so  lively,  that  the  birds 
sang  again,  and  the  brook  seemed  to  be 
talking  to  them  as  usual,  and  not  to  her,  as 
it  had  done  so  lately. 

Now  that  Lisette  returned  at  leisure,  she 
was  surprised  to  find  what  a  long  way  she 
had  followed  to  recover  Silvan' s  rose  ;  but 
then  she  had  recovered  it,  and  she  pressed 
it  fondly  against  her  bosom  without  fear 
that  she  should  destroy  its  beauty,  for  she 
knew  now  that  she  could  not  kill  the  rose 
by  pressing  it  to  her  bosom,  any  more  than, 
by  doing  the  same  thing  to  Silvan,  she 
could  kill  his  love. 

Then  again  she  wished  that,  after  all,  it 
were  but  a  simple  rose,  and  that  the  fairy 
had  not  breathed  on  it ;  for  she  had  often 
heard  of  the  treachery  of  fairy  gold  that 


90  LISETTE. 

changes  to  pebbles  in  the  morning,  and  had 
been  taught  that  fairy  favors,  however 
kindly  given,  never  thrived  with  the  pos- 
sessor ;  or,  that  no  good  can  come  to  any 
one  who  trusts  rather  to  the  possession  of  un- 
usual gifts  than  to  the  proper  direction  of 
his  own  natural  means  of  action  and  obser- 
vation.%  But  then,  thought  Lisette,  very 
likely  this  is  true  ;  but  what  are  all  the 
proverbs  and  maxims  in  the  world  compar- 
ed with  the  possession  of  Silvan' s  love,  and 
the  being  able  to  keep  for  ever  and  ever 
the  rose  that  Silvan  gave  me  when  he  told 
it?  So  Lisette  was  happy  again,  and  by 
the  time  she  returned  to  Floraine,  late  in  the 
evening,  had  dismissed  all  thought  of  the 
danger  of  possessing  fairy  favors. 

Lisette  no  sooner  entered  the  valley  than 
she  began  to  wonder  whether  she  should 

#  This  is  written  more  precisely  and  printed  in  italics, 
because  it  is  the  moral ;  and  it  is  right  that  the  au- 
thor's originality  should  be  put  prominently  forward 
when  he  contrives  that  it  should  be  held  suspended  in 
the  tale  itself. 


LISETTE.  91 

see  Silvan,  and  no  sooner  began  to  wonder 
than  she  saw  him  joyously  hastening  to- 
wards her.  He  thought  she  had  been  lost, 
since  she  had  left  Floraine  and  did  not  re- 
turn until  so  late ;  and  Lisette  laughed 
within  herself,  and  rejoiced  that  she  had 
persevered  in  following  the  brook,  when 
she  saw  the  blush  of  delight  with  which  he 
remarked  the  flower  in  her  bosom. 

"  But  where  did  you  gather  these,  my 
pretty  Lisette?"  exclaimed  he,  pointing  to 
the  nosegay ;  "I  know  no  such  sweet  flow- 
ers in  Floraine." 

"A  stranger  gave  them  to  me,"  said 
Lisette,  for  she  dared  not  tell  where  she 
had  been,  nor  what  had  happened  to  her, 
since  she  knew  that  to  be  a  certain  way  of 
incurring  the  displeasure  of  the  fairies. 

Lisette  walked  with  Silvan  to  the  village, 
and  thought  she  never  was  so  happy, — ex- 
cepting when  she  walked  with  him  that 
morning,  and  he  gave  her  the  rose  she  now 
wore. 

:Ah!    Lisette!"    said  Silvan,    "  how  I 


a 


92  LISETTE. 

envy,  how  I  love  that  rose  !  Pity  that  flow- 
ers, even  though  love  has  hallowed  them, 
fade  in  the  keeping !  " 

"Perhaps,"  said  Lisette,  smiling  happily, 
"  perhaps  our  love  may  be  such  that  its 
tokens  cannot  fade.     Who  can  tell?" 

Silvan  laughed.  "  We  will  try,"  said 
Lisette  ;  "  look  Silvan, — hereby  I  wish  this 
rose  may  last  forever,  and  in  that  case  pro- 
mise that  my  love  lasts  with-  it!  If  the  rose 
fade"— 

"What  then,  Lisette?" 

"  It  cannot  fade." 

"  Pretty  charmer,"  said  Silvan,  laughing, 
"we  will  see  by  this  true  and  lasting  token, 
how  faithful  a  lo^er  thou  canst  be." 

Lisette  gloried  in  her  little  deceit,  for  she 
thought  it  would  make  Silvan  very  happy  ; 
and  yet  it  was  not  a  deceit,  for,  after  all, 
what  did  she  more  than  say  that  her  love 
should  last  as  long  as  Silvan's?   . 

And  the  rose  bloomed  day  by  day,  and 
Lisette  wore  it  in  her  bosom,  and  knew 
that  Silvan  remained  true, — which,  without 


LISETTE.  93 

the  flower,  she  never  would  have  doubted ; 
and  Silvan  imagined  that,  as  Lisette  had 
tended  all  the  flowers  so  well,  their  spirits 
loved  her,  and  were  obedient  to  her,  and 
had  heard  her  wish  in  order  to  fulfil  it. 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTH. 

HOW  A  CERTAIN  CORRIN  WAS  A  THIEF. 

Now  among  the  other  lovers  of  Lisette, 
or,  in  other  words,  among  all  the  young 
men  in  Floraine,  there  was  a  certain  Cor- 
rin,  who,  next  to  Silvan,  loved  Lisette 
most  heartily. 

Silvan  and  Corrin  were  very  opposite 
from  each  other  in  appearance.  Silvan  was 
a  young  man  with  black  hair,  dark  com- 
plexion, and  flashing  eyes.  Corrin's  hair 
was  auburn,  his  face  delicate,  and  pale  with 
pining  for  Lisette ;  his  blue  eyes  full  of 
love  and  tears   whenever    Lisette's   name 


94  LISETTE. 

was  mentioned.  Corrin  saw  that  Lisette 
loved  Silvan  better  than  himself,  although 
to  Corrin,  from  pity,  she  was  very  kind ; 
but  he  did  not  torment  her  with  his  fruitless 
love,  lest  he  should  give  her  pain ;  neither 
did  he  hate  Silvan,  (for  how  could  he  hate 
what  Lisette  loved  ?)  and  so  kind-hearted 
Corrin  wasted  his  life  away,  sighing  in  se- 
cret. When  Lisette  was  in  the  valley  he 
would  watch  her  from  afar,  and  then,  wait- 
ing till  she  came  home,  he  would  go  and 
wander  where  her  steps  had  been,and  look  at 
the  flowers  she  had  tended,  wishing  the 
while  that  he  had  pleased  Lisette  as  well 
as  Silvan. 

One  day,  as  Corrin  wandered  sighing 
by  the  brook,  he  came  suddenly  upon  Li- 
sette, asleep  upon  a  grassy  bank.  His 
heart  filled  as  he  could  now  gaze  unob- 
served upon  her  beauties ;  and  as  she 
smiled  in  sleep,  he  thought  her  dreams 
were  of  Silvan,  and  sighed  heavily. 

Then  he  observed  a  rose  upon  her  bosom; 
he  knew  that  there  she  generally  wore  one, 


LISETTE.  95 

but  no  one  that  looked  at  Lisette  marked 
her  mere  ornaments  sufficiently  to  discover 
that  it  was  always  the  same  flower.  Cor- 
rin  gazed  upon  the  rose  and  thought,  if  he 
stole  it  from  her  bosom,  what  a  treasure  he 
should  then  possess, — how  little  she  would 
lose !  When  it  withered  still  he  would 
preserve  the  leaves,  once  hallowed  by  the 
favor  of  Lisette  ;  and  what  a  consolation  it 
would  be  to  have  so  dear  a  token !  He 
looked  at  his  own  flowers, — there  was  a 
rose  among  them  exactly  like  Lisette's ; 
he  would  exchange ;  Lisette  would  be  no 
loser,  and  himself  would  gain,  oh !  how 
inexpressible  a  treasure  ! 

So  Corrin  stooped  down  and  took  from 
Lisette's  bosom  Silvan' s  rose,  and  put  his 
own  rose  in  its  place.  And  he  started  as 
he  did  so,  for  he  thought  he  heard  a  sigh, 
but  it  was  only  the  breeze  as  it  passed  them. 


96  LISETTE. 

CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTH. 

HOW  THE  STORY  ENDS. 

When  Silvan  next  saw  Lisette,  he 
thought  the  rose  did  not  look  so  fresh  as 
it  hitherto  had  done,  but  the  difference 
was  very  slight;  so  slight  even,  that  Li- 
sette had  not  noticed  it.  Silvan  said  no- 
thing, but  the  fancy  was  sufficient  to  throAV 
a  gloom  over  his  spirits ;  for  Lisette  had 
often  smilingly  told  him  that  she  would  be 
faithless  when  the  rose  should  fade;  for 
she  loved  Silvan  with  so  true  a  love,  that 
she  believed  she  herself  would  be  false  as 
soon  as  he. 

Lisette  noticed  Silvan's  gloom,  and  tried 
in  vain  to  discover  what  might  be  the 
cause  ;  but  the  next  time  they  met,  Silvan 
saw  for  certain  that  the  rose  was  fading ; 
and  then  he  threw  his  arms  around  her 
neck  and  kissed  her  passionately,  and  look- 
ing fondly  at  her  through  his  fast  falling 
tears,  he  turned  awTay  and  fled. 


LISETTE.  97 

Lisette  looked  after  him  sadly ;  but  she 
thought  he  would  soon  return  to  her,  and 
she  wondered  much  what  had  so  moved 
him.  Then  she  looked  down  at  her  rose, 
and  poor  Lisette  trembled,  and  her  face 
became  pale ;  for  she  saw  that  the  rose 
was  gone,  for  Silvan's  last  embrace  had 
shaken  all  its  petals  off,  and  the  breeze 
was  carrying  them  away. 

She  took  up  one  that  fluttered  at  her  feet, 
and  saw  it  had  faded !  Oh,  how  suddenly, 
from  that  hour,  fled  the  bloom  from  Lisette's 
once  playful  lips  !  how  quickly  forever 
was  the  blush  of  pleasure  fled !  how  soon, 
hoAv  very  soon,  were  care  and  misery  lined 
forth  on  her  once  joyous  brow!  Silvan 
returned  no  more.  "  He  was  false,"  thought 
Lisette; — she  did  not  wish  him  to  return. 
Poor  Lisette  !  how  drooped  the  flowers  of 
Floraine,  when  thou  earnest  no  more  to 
tend  them !  how  sadly,  sadly,  murmured 
now  the  brook !  and  the  birds — when  they 
missed  thy  song,  that  carolled  once  with 


98  LISETTE. 

theirs,  in  what  plaintive  lays  did  they  re- 
proach their  absence ! 

One  day,  the  villagers  found,  upon  a 
grassy  mound  whereon  Lisette  and  Silvan 
many  a  time  had  sported,  the  body  of  a 
young  man,  with  love  and  anguish  traced 
even  in  death  upon  his  face.  They  scarce- 
ly credited  it,  so  few  were  the  lines  which 
betrayed  that  it  was  Silvan's.  They  bur- 
ied him  beneath  that  mound,  but  did  not 
tell  Lisette,  for  they  hoped  that  yet  she 
might  recover,  and  did  not  wish  her  young 
heart  to  be  broken.  And  to  that  mound 
Lisette  too  would  repair,  to  the  once  favor- 
ed spot,  ignorant  that  faithful,  broken- 
hearted Silvan  was  beneath.  There  she 
would  think  of  Silvan,  wishing  that  she 
could  cease  to  love  him,  while  the  tears 
coursed  down  her  sunken  cheeks,  and  her 
hair  fluttered  neglected  in  the  breeze. 
Alas !  there  were  no  flowers  in  it  now ! 
— there  was  no  rose  now  in  her  bosom ! 

And  Corrin,  who  little  knew  that  all  this 
wretchedness  was  caused  by  him,  mourned 


LISETTE.  99 

for  Lisette ;  but  as  he  found  the  rose  he 
had  stolen  had  never  faded,  he  thought  a 
good  spirit  had  intended  to  reward  his 
faithful  love.  He  believed  that  the  very 
truth  and  fervor  of  his  love  kept  the  sweet 
flower  from  fading.  With  length  of  time, 
the  bitterness  of  Lisette' s  sorrow  was  ap- 
peased ;  and  as  she  saw  that  every  flower 
in  the  fairy's  nosegay  blossomed  still,  and 
knew  how  many  hearts  loved  her,  she 
thought  she  was  wrong  to  breathe  so  many 
sighs  for  one  that  had  been  false.  Then 
she  would  let  Corrin  speak  with  her,  but  he 
never  spoke  of  love,  lest  her  wound  should 
bleed  afresh. 

One  day  he  stood  beside  her  on  the 
mound  where  Silvan's  body  lay,  and 
thought  she  seemed  so  calm  and  peaceful 
that  he  might  venture  to  tell  her  his  love. 
He  thought  to  tell  her  how  the  rose  he 
preserved  had  never  faded,  and  told  her 
of  the  theft  his  love  had  tempted  him  to 
commit.  Lisette  heard  no  more.  The 
dreadful  truth  entered  as  lightning  into  her 


100  LISETTE. 

soul ;  and  when  Corrin  had  ended  his  tale, 
and  grasped  Lisette's  hand,  he  saw  that  it 
was  of  a  deathly  whiteness; — he  pressed 
it  and  it  was  cold — cold  and  passive.  He 
put  her  hair  aside,  and  timidly  gazed  into 
her  face ;  her  eyes  were  open,  but  the  fire 
had  left  them.  Oh!  it  was  therein  lay 
the  fearful  change  !  rest  seemed  half  veil- 
ing an  expression  of  intensest  agony. — 
Floraine  must  mourn ! — the  sweet  Lisette 
was  dead ! 

They  buried  her,  the  once  gay  Lisette, 
under  the  mound,  by  Silvan ;  and  the  un- 
happy Corrin,  who  had  smiled  his  last,  re- 
stored the  rose  to  her  in  death,  and  placed 
it  on  her  bosom ;  and  in  the  grave  it  faded 
not,  for  still  the  love  that  called  it  forth 
was  blossoming — in  Heaven. 

NOVALIS. 


ffl 


THE  SPOILED   CHILD. 


BY  MISS  COLMAN. 


So  that's  my  lady's  prodigy, 

Lord  Henry's  hopeful  heir  ; 
Prodigious  is  his  voice  indeed, 

I'll  own  such  strength  is  rare. 

Mamma  need  fear  no  swift  decline, 
His  lungs  are  strong  and  sound  j 

My  patience  !  see  his  hands  and  feet ! 
He'll  do  some  damage,  I'll  be  bound. 

And  sure  enough  !  do  hear  the  glass ; 

And  see  !  the  rich  wine's  spilled  ; 
Why,  one  would  think  that  such  a  sight, 

His  roaring  might  have  stilled. 

But  no  ;  mamma's  pearl  coronet, 

He's  screaming  for  with  rage, 
For  she  has  said,  "No,  no,  my  dear  j  be  still 

My  darling  Henry  Page." 


102  THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 

Papa's  gold  watch,  and  splendid  seals, 
Will  soon  be  smashed  I  fear, 

And  dread  of  that  uplifted  fork, 
Is  in  the  eyes  of  yonder  peer. 


Thank  goodness  !  he  is  gone  at  last, 
We've  borne  him  long  enough  j 

There's  old  Sir  Peter  Testy,  who  I'm  sure, 
Would  soon  have  risen  in  a  huff. 

Lord  Silver  too,  who  though  he  smiles, 

So  far  from  being  amused, 
I  know  he's  thinking  in  his  heart, 

His  friendship  is  abused. 

I'm  sure,  dear  Lady  Jane,  we  both 

Most  truthfully  can  say, 
This  child's  a  prodigy  (of  ugliness,) 

From  what  we've  seen  to-day. 


LINA. 


STORY    ABOUT  A    LITTLE   GIRL  WHO  WAS    TURNED 
INTO  A  CUCKOO. 


ALTERED  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

In  a  valley  inhabited  by  a  few  shepherds 
and  their  families,  once  lived  a  young  girl, 
named  Lina,  whose  delight  it  was  to  make 
fun  of  other  children,  and  even  to  deceive 
grown-up  people.  She  would  often  hide  a 
lamb  or  a  kid,  to  enjoy  seeing  its  owner's 
trouble  in  seeking  it ;  but  she  had  even 
greater  pleasure,  when  the  children  were 
scolded  or  punished  by  their  parents  for 
inattention  to  the  flock. 

Lina  became  so  accustomed  to  these 
tricks,  that  she  could  never  meet  a  child 
without  teasing  it  in  one  way  or  another. 
She  would  tell  one,  that  his  mother  had 
been  calling  him,  and  then  laugh  heartily 
behind  his  back,  when  she  saw  him  running 
home  as  fast  as  he  could.     To  another  she 


104  LINA. 

would  offer  a  pretty  bunch  of  flowers,  in 
which  a  thorn  was  hidden  ;  and  which, 
when  smelled  at,  was  sure  to  prick  the  nose. 
If  a  traveller,  coming  through  the  valley, 
ignorant  of  the  way,  had  the  misfortune  to 
meet  Lina,  and  ask  her  to  show  him  the 
road,  she  was  sure  to  point  out  a  wrong 
path,  which  would  lead  either  to  a  swamp 
or  an  untrodden  thicket,  where  he  could 
with  difficulty  make  his  way  through  thorns 
and  bramble-bushes ;  but  at  the  same  time, 
her  manner  would  appear  so  artless,  and 
she  would  so  earnestly  assure  the  traveller, 
that  she  had  just  come  that  road  herself, 
and  that  it  was  both  the  nearest  and  the 
pleasantest,  that  he  could  not  help  believing 
her,  until  too  late  convinced  of  her  roguery. 
Lina  grew  worse  and  worse  in  her  be- 
havior. Her  mother  had  broken  her  leg 
by  a  fall,  and  had  to  hobble  about  slowly, 
and  with  great  pain,  by  the  help  of  a  stick. 
"What  good  daughter  would  not  have  pitied 
and  assisted  her  mother,  all  that  she  could? 
But  Lina  did  not  do  so.     On  the  contrary, 


LINA.  105 

she  would  not  answer  when  called ;  and,  if 
her  mother  came  to  seek  her,  she  would 
run  away  to  a  distance,  and  cry  out  in 
mockery,  "  Catch  me,  if  you  can."  Nev- 
ertheless, the  mother  had  a  foolish  tender- 
ness for  Lina,  did  not  like  to  hear  of  her 
faults,  and  tried  to  excuse  them.  She  did 
not  punish  her  for  her  disobedience  and 
wickedness;  and,  if  any  one  complained 
of  Lina's  bad  behavior  or  malicious  pranks, 
she  would  answer,  "  What  can  you  expect 
from  a  child  ?  These  are  only  childish 
frolics." 

A  good  old  neighbor,  Meta,  admonished 
her  without  effect ;  telling  her  that  she  was 
bringing  up  her  daughter  to  be  a  plague  to 
everybody,  but  most  of  all  to  herself;  and 
that  sooner  or  later,  unhappiness  and  misery 
must  follow  all  who  neglect  to  instruct 
their  children  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  and 
in  their  duty  to  man. 

One  May  day,  as  Lina  was  going  over 
the  meadow,  she  met  little  Seppi,  and  asked 
him  if  he  would  go  with  her  to  gather  May 
i 


106  UNA. 

flowers.  "  Oh  !  yes,"  the  boy  replied,  "  I 
wish  to  make  a  wreath  to  give  to  my  sister 
to-morrow ;  for  it  will  be  her  birth-day. " 
"  Come  then,"  said  Lina ;  and  away  they 
went  together  into  the  wood.  The  bushes, 
trie  hazel  copses,  the  birch  and  the  beech 
trees,  were  already  in  green  leaf,  and  the 
oaks  putting  forth  their  first  little  red  leaves; 
and,  in  every  open  space,  the  May  flowers 
were  blowing  in  abundance. 

After  gathering  large  bunches,  and  going 
a  long  way  in  the  forest,  far  from  any  path, 
Seppi  became  uneasy,  and  asked  Lina  if 
she  was  not  ready  to  go  home  again,  and 
begged  her  to  take  him  back,  as  he  could 
not  find  the  way  alone. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  Seppi,"  said  she ;  "  but  just 
let  us  gather  a  few  more  flowers!  You  go 
on  that  side,  and  I  will  take  this."  As  she 
spoke,  she  stooped  to  the  ground,  to  hide 
the  cunning  smile  which  passed  over  her 
face.  Seppi  stooped  to  pluck  some  more 
flowers ;  but,  when  he  looked  up  to  speak 
to  Lina,  she  was  not  there. 


LIN  A.  107 

"Lina!  Lina!"  he  cried.  Lina  did  not 
answer.     "  Where  are  you,  Lina?" 

Then  Lina  cried  from  a  distant  bush, 
"Here  I  am:  peep  !  peep!"  She  did  not 
wait  until  Seppi  came,  but  ran  quickly 
away ;  and,  when  the  little  boy  arrived  at 
the  bush  from  whence  he  had  heard  her 
call,  she  was  not  there.  Almost  choked 
with  grief  and  terror,  again  he  cried,  "O 
Lina!  do  not  leave  me  :  tell  me  where  you 
are." — "Peep!"  again  was  the  reply. 

In  this  way,  Lina  led  the  poor  child  on, 
now  this  way,  now  that;  always  eluding 
his  search,  and  crying  to  him,  "Now,  Seppi, 
peep!  look  this  way."  Seppi  sought  here, 
and  sought  there,  all  to  no  purpose ;  the 
wicked  girl  still  mocking  him,  till  he  at  last 
fell  down  amongst  some  rough  sticks  and 
briers,  which  wounded  his  face  and  hands 
sadly.  But  Lina  continued  to  cry,  "Peep! 
peep! "  as  her  poor  little  companion  lay 
sobbing  on  the  ground,  unable  to  follow 
her  any  longer. 

As  Lina  was  hiding  in  a  very  thick  bush, 


108  LINA. 

the  green  boughs  parted,  and  a  stranger 
youth  stood  before  her,  looking  at  her  with 
earnest  eyes.  His  hair  was  bright  and 
waving,  his  garment  light  blue ;  and  he 
held  a  beautiful  full-blown  white  lily  in  his 
hand.  Lina  stared  in  great  surprise. 
"Lina,"  said  he,  "dost  thou  play  at  hide- 
and-seek?" 

Lina  nodded  her  head  in  reply. 

"Well,  Lina,  I  will  help  thy  game."  So 
saying,  he  touching  Lina's  head  with  his 
lily,  and  she  immediately  became  a  bird 
with  bluish-brown  feathers,  which  flew  up 
in  the  air,  and  disappeared  amongst  the 
foliage  of  the  nearest  tree,  crying, — 
"Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!" 

The  stranger  youth  led  little  Seppi  safely 
through  the  wood,  and  helped  him  to  carry 
the  May  flowers.  When  they  reached  the 
meadow,  he  vanished  like  a  light  cloud  in  the 
air.  Lina  remained  a  bird  all  through  the 
spring,  crying  "  Cuckoo  !  "  and  hiding  her- 
self, so  that  no  eyes  could  see  her ;  and, 
for  a  living,  she  was  forced  to  pick  up  little 


UNA.  109 

insects,  and  such  berries  as  she  could  find. 
She  did  not  lose  her  soul,  or  spirit;  and 
after  several  weeks,  she  began  to  reflect 
seriously  upon  her  situation,  and  was  en- 
abled to  perceive  that  this  very  severe  pun- 
ishment and  loss  of  all  her  dear  friends, 
was  caused  by  her  wicked  behavior,  in  de- 
ceiving and  vexing  them  and  her  playmates. 
These  reflections  were  followed  by  sincere 
penitence,  and  full  resolutions  to  do  so  no 
more.  She  was  enabled  to  lift  up  her  heart 
in  prayer  to  Him  who  knoweth  the  thoughts 
of  all,  and  without  whose  notice  "  not  a 
sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground."  Then 
came  the  time  for  her  release,  and  change 
back  to  her  own  form  again.  Her  pa- 
rents received  her  gladly,  and,  with  all 
their  neighbors,  rejoiced  that  "  she  who 
was  lost  was  found  again."  She  ever  re- 
membered the  voice  of  the  cuckoo,  and 
was  thankful,  always  trying  to  be  kind  to 
all,  and  thus  became  happy. 


r* 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

"I  have  used  similitudes." 

Musing  one  day  upon  the  state  of  things 
as  they  were  in  the  Golden  Age,  especially 
respecting  the  mode  of  instruction  then, 
when  there  were  no  writings,  but  instead, 
man  was  instructed  in  what  was  true  by  an 
opening  of  his  spiritual  sight,  and  thus  fre- 
quently admitted  into  connection  with  an- 
gels, who  taught  him  all  the  truths  of  heaven 
and  at  the  same  time  influenced  his  heart 
to  kind  and  holy  affections  ;  my  mind  be- 
came tranquil,  so  much  so,  that  I  have  sel- 
dom experienced  such  happy  sensations. 
After  thinking  some  time,  I  fell  into  a 
sound  sleep,  and  I  dreamed  that  I  was 
placed  in  the  midst  of  the  people  of  the 
Golden  Age.  I  thought  I  was  in  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  districts  of  the  earth,  so 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.  Ill 

charming  that  I  never  saw  any  thing  so  de- 
lightful before.  On  some  rising  ground 
stood  a  most  beautiful  yet  simple  house ; 
nothing  gorgeous  or  splendid  was  about  it, 
yet  it  was  exceedingly  pretty ;  it  seemed 
as  if  built  of  wood,  but  of  a  very  shin- 
ing kind,  which  threw  back  a  halo  of 
glory.  The  owner  of  this  house  had  two 
daughters,  the  one  named  Chacune,  the 
other  Aucune.  Chacune  was  extremely 
fair  and  lovely,  stately  in  figure,  with  long 
flowing  golden  hair  }  her  garments  were 
neat,  and  her  temper  was  always  as  sweet 
as  herself.  On  the  other  hand,  Aucune 
was  not  fair,  nor  was  she  at  all  pretty  ;  her 
countenance  seemed  always  frowning  and 
out  of  humor.  She  wished  very  much  to 
be  handsome,  and  in  order  to  make  herself 
so,  she  would  dress  in  tawdry  things,  which 
only  made  her  uglier.  Her  temper  was 
very  violent  and  self-willed,  as  indeed 
might  be  perceived  from  the  scowling  as- 
pect of  her  face.  These  sisters  did  not 
live  happily  together.      Every  one  loved 


112       THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

Chacune,  because  she  loved  every  one,  and 
desired  to  do  good  to  all.  If  any  one 
asked  Aucune  how  her  sweet  little  sister 
Chacune  was,  she  grew  angry,  and  would 
scarcely  answer ;  for  she  was  proud,  and 
envious  of  the  praises  bestowed  on  her 
sister,  and  wished  all  to  speak  about  and 
praise  herself. 

Aucune  envied  Chacune  most  on  account 
of  her  surpassing  loveliness.  She  had  en- 
deavored in  many  ways  to  make  herself 
beautiful,  but  could  not ;  for  do  what  she 
would,  her  dark,  thick,  strong  hair  would 
not  assume  the  golden  tint  and  glossy  ap- 
pearance that  Chacune' s  had ;  neither  could 
she  make  her  distorted  features  like  the 
noble  and  regularly  formed  countenance 
of  her  sister,  although  she  had  many  times 
gone  on  a  clear  fine  day  to  a  limpid 
stream,  and  there  twisted  and  pulled  it 
into  all  shapes,  to  make  it  as  pretty  as 
Chacune's. 

One  day,  as  Aucune  was  walking  in  the 
garden,  she  found  Chacune  asleep  on  one 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN*  113 

of  the  green  banks  of  moss.  She  thought, 
what  a  nice  time  it  was  to  deprive  her  of 
her  long  golden  hair,  and  make  her  as  ugly 
as  herself;  she  was  for  some  time  halting 
what  to  do;  at  last  a  sweet  smile  came 
over  the  face  of  Chacune,  and  if  possible, 
made  her  look  more  beautiful  than  before. 
The  envious  Aucune  could  bear  no  longer; 
she  ran  into  the  house,  and  brought  a  knife, 
and  entirely  spoiled  all  her  sister's  pretty 
locks.  When  Chacune  awoke  and  found 
her  pretty  hair  gone,  she  cried  bitterly,  and 
mildly  complained,  and  reasoned  with  her 
sister,  but  she  did  not  scold  or  strike  her, 
then  quietly  bore  her  loss. 

It  was  reported  in  the  neighborhood,  that 
during  the  time  Chacune  slept  upon  the  bed 
of  moss  in  the  garden,  her  spirit  was  ad- 
mitted into  the  company  of  angels,  with 
whom  she  talked  and  strayed  into  fields  of 
an  eternal  green,  and  that  they  had  bathed 
her  in  the  Fountain  of  Beauty,  on  the  sum- 
mit of  Mount  Innocence,  in  the  spiritual 
world.     Aucune  wished  to  know  very  much 


114       THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

from  Chacune  how  she  might  gain  admit- 
tance to  the  Fountain.  Chacune  said,  "If 
I  tell  you,  you  would  not  believe ;  but  if 
you  will  wait,  perhaps  the  kind  angels 
will  come,  and  show  you  the  way."  This 
did  not  satisfy  Aucune,  she  had  not  patience 
to  wait ;  she  was  constantly  teazing  her 
sister  to  tell  her.  One  day,  after  being 
more  than  usually  anxious,  she  wandered 
into  a  shady  grotto,  and  fell  fast  asleep, 
still  thinking  how  she  might  be  enabled  to 
bathe  in  the  Immortal  Fountain,  and  be  as 
pretty  as  Chacune.  I  dreamed  she  had 
entered  the  immortal  regions.  There  I 
saw  her  going  towards  a  very  splendid 
gate,  which  some  one  called  "  The  Gate 
of  Beauty."  "  Here,"  thought  Aucune, 
"  I  must  enter,  and  learn  the  way  to  the 
Fountain ;  "  accordingly  she  went  up  to  it, 
and  knocked  boldly.  Instantly  the  gate 
was  opened  by  an  angel,  dressed  in  bril- 
liant green  garments,  so  beautiful,  and  so 
unlike  any  garments  I  had  ever  beheld  on 
earth,  that  it  is  impossible  to  describe  them. 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.  115 

11  Enter,"  said  he  to  Aucune.  She  attempt- 
ed, but  as  soon  as  she  set  her  foot  forward, 
and  was  within  the  door,  she  felt  a  very- 
heavy  pain  upon  her  forehead ;  her  eyes 
became  dim,  and  she  trembled  with  fear 
and  pain,  and  the  more  she  advanced,  the 
worse  she  was :  at  last  she  felt  she  could 
bear  no  longer ;  so  she  returned,  and  stood 
sighing  without  the  door,  fearful  lest  she 
should  not  be  shown  the  road  to  the  Im- 
mortal Fountain.  Whilst  she  was  standing 
there,  she  heard  some  angels  from  within 
the  porch  of  the  gate  singing  in  a  sweet 
strain ;  she  listened,  and  endeavored  to 
catch  the  words  ;  the  sounds  became  faint- 
er, at  last  they  died  away,  and  poor  Au- 
cune was  retiring  almost  heart-broken, 
when  suddenly  the  song  commenced  again, 
louder  than  before,  and  she  heard  distinctly 
the  following  words: — 

"  You  cannot  pass 
This  gate  of  brass  ; 
You  do  not  love 
Our  God  above, 


116       THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

Nor  kindly  do 
To  sister  too, 
As  you  would  she 
Should  do  to  you." 

At  first,  she  could  not  tell  whether  they 
were  intended  for  her  to  practise,  or  they 
were  merely  the  song  of  some  angels  within, 
who  were  amusing  themselves  by  singing  ; 
she  pondered  what  to  do,  and  what  to 
think,  when  the  angel  in  green  appeared. 
Aucune  requested  him  to  tell  her  what  the 
music  meant.  "  Know,  mortal,"  said  he, 
"this  is  the  Gate  of  Beauty,  through  which 
all  must  pass,  who  wish  to  bathe  in  the 
Fountain  of  Beauty.  The  door  is  open  to 
all,  but  none  can  live  in  the  atmosphere 
which  pervades  inside  the  gate,  except 
those  who  practise  the  purport  of  the  In- 
structing Angels'  song,  which  they  always 
sing,  when  any  one  passes  the  threshold, 
and  is  obliged  to  withdraw,  which  you  per- 
ceived from  what  you  yourself  experienced 
on  setting  the  first  foot  inside  the  gate.  By 
this  we  know  that  you  do  not  love  God, 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.      117 

and  we  also  know  that  you  do  not  care 
about  teazing  your  sister.  Now,  if,  when 
you  return  to  the  world,  you  will  not  speak 
harshly  to  your  sister  Chacune,  nor  destroy 
her  golden  hair  any  more,  nor  do  anything 
to  make  her  sorrowful,  you  will  be  able  to 
pass  this  gate,  and  live  in  the  air  that  is 
within  it.  Return  now,  and  try  to  do  this 
for  three  months,  then  come  again  and  you 
shall  be  conducted  on  the  road  to  the 
Fountain  of  Beauty."  Aucune  turned 
away  from  the  gate  very  sorrowful,  for  the 
task  seemed  to  her  an  extremely  hard  one. 
Once  or  twice  she  thought  of  returning  to 
ask  the  angel  in  green  if  to  give  her  sister  a 
great  many  pretty  flowers  from  her  favorite 
bed,  or  some  of  her  gaudy  dresses,  would 
not  do,  instead  of  being  kind  to  her  for  so 
long.  And  probably  she  would  have  done 
so,  had  it  not  happened  at  that  instant  that 
her  spiritual  sight  closed,  and  shut  from  her 
view  the  gate,  and  all  things  belonging  to 
it.  On  her  return  to  the  world  of  nature, 
the  first  object  she  saw  was  Chacune,  who 
j 


118      THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

was  watering  a  beautiful  bed  of  flowers, 
which  had  grown  surprisingly  since  Aucune 
had  noticed  it.  She  felt  an  emotion  of 
envy  arising  in  her  breast  when  she  looked 
upon  the  beautiful  flowers  which  seemed 
to  rejoice  at  belonging  to  so  sweet  a  girl  as 
Chacune ;  "for,"  thought  she,  "every  thing 
my  sister  has  to  do  with,  looks  prettier  than 
what  any  one's  else  does,  and  every  one 
praises  her  for  it.  I  wish  she  would  die,  or 
go  away,  then  what  I  have  would  be  prais- 
ed, and  I  should  be  loved  as  she  is."  Her 
feelings  towards  her  sister  were  so  naughty, 
that  she  could  scarcely  help  destroying  the 
flowers ;  but  then  she  remembered  the  an- 
gels' song- — 

"And  kindly  do 
To  sister  too, 
As  you  would  she 
Should  do  to  you." 

If  she  should  destroy  them,  she  could  not 
pass  the  Gate  of  Beauty  ;  so,  rather  than 
not  bathe  in  the  Immortal  Fountain,  she 
would  let  the  flowers  alone,  and  be  as  kind 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.  119' 

to  her  sister  as  she  was  commanded.  Many 
times,  she  had  great  difficulty  to  avoid 
speaking  angrily  to  her  sister,  and  those 
near  her ;  but  she  did  -  avoid  it — the  desire 
to  be  beautiful  overcame  every  thing  else, 
"  Only  three  months,  and  I  shall  be  as 
pretty  as  she,"  she  would  frequently  say  to 
herself.  "  Oh  !  how  happy  I  shall  be  I 
every  body  will  be  pleased  with  me,  sister 
will  not  then  have  all  the  praise  to  herself ; 
how  vexed  she  will  be,  when  she  sees  that 
I  am  as  pretty  as  she,  and  loved  as  she  is." 
In  this  way  she  consoled  herself,  when  she 
was  near  breaking  out  into  a  passion. 

At  last,  the  three  months  were  over.  She 
went,  and  lay  down  on  the  downy  moss  in 
the  gar  den,  and  awoke  in  the  spiritual  world . 
She  immediately  went  to  the  Gate  of  Beauty 
and  knocked  as  before  ;  the  angel  in  green 
opened  the  gate  and  requested  her  to  come 
forward ;  she  did  so,  and,  to  her  surprise r 
she  found  the  atmosphere  most  delightful ; 
instead  of  being  painful  and  heavy,  she 
felt  it  light  and  animating.     On  entering, 


120  THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

she  was  ushered  into  a  large  hall,  in  which 
angels  were  walking,  all  seemingly  as  pret- 
ty as  Chacune.      They  all  welcomed  her, 
and  seemed  anxious  to  be  of  use  to  her. 
She   asked   the   way   to   the  Fountain  of 
Beauty ;  they  told  her,  but  said  that  no  one 
was  allowed  to   go   alone,   but  that  some 
conducting   angel   was   always  provided ; 
and  also,  that  every  one  must  be   clothed 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  country,  for 
that  if  any  one  was  found  not  having  on 
such  garments  as  are  usually  worn  there, 
they  would  be  instantly  turned  back.       In 
a  short  time  her  conducting  angel  appeared, 
having  with  him  garments  for  Aucune  ;  she 
put  them  on,  and  found  that  they  fitted  her 
better  than  any  she  had  had  before  ;    yet 
they  were  not  so   pretty  and  neat  as  those 
of  the  conducting  angel.     Their  color  was 
duller,  with  here  and  there  black  spots  upon 
them.      When  she   was  fully  attired,  the 
angel  led  her  out  into  the  road  to  the  Foun- 
tain.    The  road  was  very  curiously  formed, 
but  very  neat,  having  flowers  of  various 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 


121 


kinds  for  a  border,  which  sent  forth  sweet 
odors.  At  short  distances  from  each  other, 
grew  fig  trees,  bearing  fine  ripe  figs.  Au- 
cune  did  not  appear  to  see  the  beauty  of 
the  flowers,  nor  smell  their  odors,  nor,  in- 
deed, to  perceive  any  of  the  rich  things 
which  were  there ;  for  the  idea  of  being 
beautiful,  and  gathering  to  herself  the  praise 
that  was  now  bestowed  upon  Chacune,  and 
the  dread  of  continuing*  ugly,  occupied  the 
whole  of  her  attention.  By  and  by,  as 
they  advanced,  Aucune  felt  the  air  oppres- 
sive, almost  in  a  similar  manner  as  she  had 
done  when  first  she  attempted  to  enter  the 
Gate  of  Beauty.  She  was  at  last  obliged 
to  stop.  Her  conducting  angel  saw  her 
condition,  and  said  to  her,  "  Here  we  must 
stay  ;  the  atmosphere,  I  perceive,  is  be- 
coming too  pure  for  you  to  breathe.  You 
have  indeed  avoided  doing  any  harm  to 
your  sister,  but  you  did  it  only  that  you 
might  be  made  beautiful,  and  from  fear  of 
being  punished.  Now  return  to  your 
world,  and  for  six  months  never  once  de- 


122  THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

sire  to  be  beautiful,  merely  for  the  sake  of 
taking  away  the  praise  which  your  sister 
now  receives." 

This  was  a  severe  task — far  more  so  than 
the  one  preceding ;  the  idea  of  being  beau- 
tiful, and  of  bearing  away  from  Chacune 
the  praise  which  was  bestowed  upon  her, 
had  seemed  to  support  her  in  her  passion- 
ate moments,  when  she  was  near  speaking 
angrily,  or  striking  her.  "  What,"  thought 
she,  "  is  the  use  of  being  beautiful,  unless 
I  am  permitted  to  gather  all  the  praise  and 
love  of  others,  and  bring  them  to  myself?  " 
Notwithstanding,  she  had  a  desire  to  be 
beautiful,  and  so  would  endeavor  not  to 
think  of  depriving  her  sister  of  her  praise. 
She  was  conducted  back  to  the  Gate  of 
Beauty,  and  soon  she  returned  to  the  world. 

It  was  soon  remarked  by  almost  all  who 
knew  Aucune,  how  good  tempered  she  had 
become,  and  how  kind  to  Chacune  she  was. 
"  I  love  her  dearly,"  said  Chacune  one  day. 
"  And  so  do  I,"  said  another,  "  and  always 
did,  excepting  when  I  saw  her  behaving 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.       123 

so  naughtily  to  you,  dear  Chacune."  "  O, 
I  never  minded  that,"  observed  Chacune, 
"  I  loved  her  still;  perhaps  she  had  some 
cause  to  be  ill  tempered  with  me,  and  be- 
sides, she  was  not  so  very  bad  either.  I 
love  her  more  and  more  every  day;  she 
shall  play  with  my  toys,  and  I  will  give  her 
some  of  my  pretty  flowers,  and  she  shall 
go  with  me  to  hear  that  beautiful  bird 
which  sings  in  the  grove  when  it  sees  me. 
I  '11  have  every  thing  I  can  to  please  her, 
for  I  love  her  dearly."  Aucune  saw  how 
every  one  began  to  smile  at  her,  and  some 
one  called  her  a  sweet  girl.  This  pleased 
her  so  much,  that  she  began  to  think  that 
she  could  have  praise  and  yet  not  bear  away 
the  praise  from  Chacune.  This  was  a  de- 
lightful idea.  "Oh!  then  I  shall  yet  be 
beautiful,  and  every  one  will  praise  me," 
said  she  to  herself;  and  as  she  uttered  it, 
she  felt  as  if  she  would  like  to  deprive 
Chacune  of  it  all ;  but  then  again,  she  re- 
membered the  instruction  of  the  conduct- 
ing angel,  and  she  endeavored  to  stifle  the 


124      THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

desire.  Frequently,  during  the  six  months, 
she  caught  herself  giving  way  to  thinking 
how  delightful  it  would  be,  if  Chacune 
were  spoiled  of  her  golden  hair,  her  pretty 
face,  and  beautiful  form.  She  thought  how 
she  would  then  begin  to  be  disliked ;  for 
she  imagined  that  people  loved  her  only 
because  she  was  pretty,  and  not  because 
she  was  always  good  tempered ;  but  at 
length  she  dismissed  such  wicked  thoughts, 
for  fear  of  being  turned  back  again  in  the 
way  of  beauty. 

At  the  end  of  six  months,  she  was  again 
in  the  spiritual  world.  She  knocked  at  the 
gate,  and  it  was  opened  by  the  same  angel 
in  green.  He  did  not  seem  to  look  so 
pleasantly  as  he  had  done  before,  neither 
did  the  conducting  angel,  whom  she  found 
in  the  lofty  hall.  He  brought  her  garments, 
but  they  were  not  so  clear  or  pretty  as  those 
she  had  on.  They  set  forward  toward  the 
Fountain  of  Beauty,  which  Aucune  made 
herself  sure  of  reaching  this  time  ;  but  she 
had  not  gone  far  before  she  felt  the  same 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.       125 

heavy  and  painful  sensation  as  she  had 
done  at  first.  "I  observe,"  said  the  angel, 
"  that  you  cannot  bear  this  atmosphere  ; 
you  have  not  done  as  I  instructed  you ;  fre- 
quently you  have  cherished  a  desire  to 
deprive  your  sister  of  the  praise  she  has 
bestowed  upon  her  :  this  I  know  from  those 
black  spots  which  appear  on  your  gar- 
ments. This  is  very  naughty ;  you  see, 
you  have  not  been  able  to  proceed  so  far  as 
you  did  before ;  this  is  because  you  are 
not  so  good.  When  you  came  before,  you 
had  not  been  told  that  you  must  avoid  wish- 
ing any  harm  to  your  sister,  but  when  you 
had  gone  as  far  on  the  road  of  Beauty  as 
was  consistent  with  your  state,  I  told  you 
what  you  must  do  if  you  wished  to  pro- 
gress farther ;  this  is  the  reason  why  you 
cannot  proceed  so  far  as  you  did  at  first ; 
until  you  do  as  I  have  said,  you  cannot  pass 
here.  Go  now  to  your  world,  and  endea- 
vor to  stifle  all  evil  desires,  when  they  rise 
up  in  your  bosom ;  pray  earnestly  to  God 
to  keep  you  from  hatred,  and  you  will  find 


126  THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

that  the  task  is  not  so  difficult  as  you  imag- 
ined." Aucune,  on  hearing  what  the  angel 
said,  burst  into  tears  and  the  knowledge 
that  she  had  wished  harm  to  her  sister 
many  times  oppressed  her,  but  she  hoped 
that  she  should  not  do  so  any  more.  She 
returned  very  sad  to  the  gate.  As  she 
was  going  through  she  heard  the  same  an- 
gels singing  whom  she  had  heard  before, 
but  it  was  not  the  same  song,  nor  the  same 
strain.  The  sounds  were  the  sweetest  she 
had  ever  heard ;  there  was  so  much  affec- 
tion and  consolation  breathed  in  them,which 
flowed  upon  her  troubled  mind,  like  oil  up- 
on the  ruffled  waters,  that  she  listened,  and 
found  the  words  were — 

"  Never  fear, 

Little  dear, 
For  beauteous  thou  shalt  be  ; 

Upwards  bear 

Thy  heart  in  prayer, 
And  the  fountain  thou  shalt  see." 

She  felt  quite  animated  with  this  assur- 
ance, and  determined  to  do  all  she  could  to 
put  down  all  angry  and  envious  feelings. 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.      127 

After  her  return  to  the  world,  she  found 
herself  many  times  tempted  to  envy  and 
hate  Chacune,  particularly,  because  she 
grew  more  beautiful  every  day,  and  all 
things  she  did  prospered  so  much  better 
than  any  thing  she  herself  did.  In  course 
of  time,  her  spiritual  sight  was  opened 
again.  On  approaching  the  Gate  of  Beauty, 
she  found  that  the  brass,  of  which  the  gate 
was  composed,  shone  most  brightly :  be- 
fore it  was  fine,  but  now  it  was  so  bright, 
that  she  never  saw  brass  look  so  resplen- 
dent before.  She  was  admitted  by  the 
angel  in  green.  He,  as  well  as  the  gate, 
seemed  to  have  acquired  new  lustre ; 
around  his  head  he  had  a  Avreath  of  flow- 
ers, here  and  there  studded  with  a  glitter- 
ing emerald  ;  his  countenance  was  lighted 
up  with  an  affectionate  smile,  as  he  wel- 
comed Aucune  within  the  portal.  She  went 
into  the  lofty  hall :  here  again  she  beheld 
beauties  which  had  not  struck  her  before. 
The  walls  were  of  pure  alabaster,  with  fig- 
ures of  gentle  beasts  and  birds,  curiously 


128      THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

wrought  here  and  there  upon  them.  The 
roof  was  of  cedar  wood,  also  richly  carved, 
supported  by  pillars  of  porphyry.  The 
light  was  admitted  from  above,  through  a 
dome ;  it  was  not  cold  white  light,  like 
snow,  but  full  of  a  mellow  tint,  as  if  alive  ; 
now  and  then,  there  was  seen  a  playful  sun- 
ny ray,  dancing  upon  the  wall,  which  bright- 
ened the  images  as  if  they  were  chrystal. 
"  Wonderful !  how  is  it  these  did  not  ap- 
pear so  beautiful  when  I  was  here  before," 
exclaimed  Aucune.  "  Oh  !  see  the  gar- 
ments of  those  angels  !"  as  she  observed  a 
company  of  these  blessed  beings  approach- 
ing. "  See  their  flowing  robes  of  downy 
silk  !  What  caps  of  flowers  !  Oh  !  what 
brightness  from  those  emerald  stars ! " 
They  came  and  stood  opposite  to  her,  as 
if  anticipating  some  question.  "Why  are 
all  things  here  so  beautiful  to-day  ?  "  said 
Aucune.  M  We  enjoy  all  these  beauties 
every  day,"  said  they.  "  But,"  said  Au- 
cune, "  when  last  I  was  permitted  to  enter 
this  hall,  I  did  not  observe  such  beauties  as 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.       129 

now  I  do."  "  Very  likely  not,"  said  the 
angels,  "  but  then,  you  know,  you  wished 
not  well  to  your  sister,  and  even  desired 
that  harm  might  come  upon  her  ;  it  was  be- 
cause of  this,  that  every  thing  appeared  to 
have  so  little  beauty.  Evil  causes  a  dense 
mist  to  rise  over  the  mind,  which  makes 
every  thing  seen  through  it  lose  some  por- 
tion of  its  beauty,  and  so  it  was  with  you. 
These  beautiful  objects  were  dimmed,  be- 
cause then  you  saw  through  the  darkening 
mist.  We  saw  all  these  things  then,  as  we 
see  them  now."  "  Oh,  how  many  glorious 
sights  I  must  have  lost,"  thought  Aucune  ! 
She  determined  never  again  to  wish  ill  to 
her  sister.  The  conducting  angel  appear- 
ed, and  desired  her  to  put  on  the  costume 
of  the  country.  She  found  that  all  the  dull 
appearance  and  black  spots  had  gone.  In 
addition  to  what  she  had  had  before,  the 
angel  gave  her  a  garland  of  flowers,  which 
she  placed  upon  her  head,  as  if  for  a  crown. 
On  entering  the  road,  she  perceived  many 
beauties  that  were  not  apparent  before  ;  she 


130  THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

felt  a  delightful  fragrance,  as  if  from  new 
budding  blossoms ;  beautiful  birds,  of  a 
light  green  tinge,  warbled  sweet  delightful 
notes,  while  they  sat  upon  the  branches  of 
the  fig  and  the  aloe  trees,  as  if  to  welcome 
Aucune  to  their  sweet  abode.  They  pro- 
ceeded onward ;  at  each  succeeding  step, 
new  objects  appeared,  each  manifesting 
peculiar  beauties.  Each  side  of  the  road 
was  one  continued  flower  bed,  full  of  no- 
ble flowers  ;  thousands  of  brilliant  little  in- 
sects too,  sipped  the  dew-drops  from  their 
petals,  and  hummed  in  concert  with  the 
birds  above.  Now  and  then,  was  heard  a 
noise,  as  if  from  the  falling  of  the  waters 
of  a  distant  cascade,  which  Aucune  thought 
must  be  those  of  the  Fountain  of  Beauty. 
At  length  they  arrived  at  another  gate, 
composed  of  solid  silver,  having  written 
over,  in  letters  of  gold,  "  The  Portal  of 
Truth."  "  We  must  enter  here,"  said  the 
angel,  and  he  knocked,  and  immediately 
there  appeared  a  glorious  one  in  white,  who 
bid  them  enter  ;  they  did  so ;  when,  almost 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.  131 

as  soon  as  Aucune  had  entered,  she  felt  an 
unpleasant  sensation  ;  she  burst  into  tears, 
and  said,  "Am  not  I  pure  enough  yet,  to 
go  to  the  Immortal  Fountain  ?" — for  a  pre- 
sentiment crossed  her  mind,  which  said 
"Thou  canst  not  enter."  "None  can  bathe 
in  those  waters,  but  those  who  feel  a  pleas- 
ure in  breathing  the  atmosphere  within 
this  gate,"  said  the  angel  in  white.  "What 
must  I  do,  to  be  made  able  to  enter  ? " 
exclaimed  she.  "  You  have  hitherto,  only- 
done  good  to  your  sister,  because  you  were 
afraid  of  not  being  beautiful  if  you  did 
otherwise,  and  because  you  were  ordered 
to  do  so,"  said  the  angel.  "  One  who  does 
good  from  motives  of  that  kind,  is  not  able 
to  live  in  our  air.  We  love  every  one,  be- 
cause God  has  enabled  us  to  understand 
how  reasonable  this  duty  is ;  how  truly 
beautiful  are  order  and  kindness,  and  how 
completely  obedient  to  truth  ;  because  it  is 
truth  which  is  blessed  by  new  and  brighter 
displays  of  heavenly  light ;  and  thus  how 
foolish  and  irrational  all  obstinacy  and  sin 


132       THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

are  !  We  should  avoid  them,  because  they 
are  wrong,  and  because  all  the  thoughts 
that  arise  from  them  are  false,  darkening 
the  mind.  God  condemns  sin,  because  He 
is  the  fountain  of  good ;  and  for  this  Ave 
love  Him,  and  shun  what  opposes  Him. 
Strive  to  do  the  same  for  one  year,  and 
then  you  shall  pass  the  silvery  gate."  She 
returned  to  the  world,  and  endeavored  to 
do  as  she  had  been  instructed.  At  first  she 
found  great  difficulty  in  banishing  from 
her  mind  all  idea  of  reward,  especially, 
when  she  was  allowing  her  sister  to  join 
her,  at  some  rare  kind  of  fruit,  which  she 
now  and  then  had  given  to  her  by  a  lady, 
who  was  pleased  to  see  how  much  better 
she  had  become  of  late.  By  and  by,  she 
besran  to  feel  that  it  was  not  so  difficult  to 
see  the  beauty  of  being,  and  doing  good, 
hoping  for  nothing  again,  as  she  at  first  had 
imagined  ;  she  soon  found  out  how  foolish 
sin  was  ;  how  ridiculous  to  make  ourselves 
unhappy,  that  we  may  make  others  so  ;  she 
saw   that  the  first  person   a  wicked    girl 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.  133 

makes  wretched,  is  herself;  and  that  while 
she  but  slightly  injures  others,  she  destroys 
herself  for  ever ;  and  that  good  persons, 
whatever  benefits  they  may  procure  for  oth- 
ers, are  most  blessed  themselves.  She  en- 
deavored to  act  from  these  motives,  for  she 
was  not  yet  capable  of  acting  from  purer 
ones.  She  made  no  bargains  with  God 
now.  She  was  kind  and  obliging  because 
it  was  right,  and  from  a  remembrance  of 
the  many  kind  things  her  sister  had  done 
her  ;  she  saw,  therefore,  that  it  was  her 
duty  to  repay  that  kindness  which  she  had 
so  plentifully  received,  both  from  her  Fa- 
ther above  and  her  sister  on  earth.  But  it 
must  not  be  supposed  that  she  overcame 
all  her  difficulties  at  once  ;  more  than  once 
she  was  obliged  to  return,  when  on  her 
journey  to  the  Fountain  of  Beauty.  Yes, 
if  I  remember  right,  thrice  she  came  back, 
having  had  her  failings  pointed  out  by  the 
conducting  angel  in  white,  who  had  been 
commanded  by  the  Lord  to  lead  her  for- 
ward on  the  Avay  to  the  Immortal  Fountain, 


134      THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

into  whose  care  the  angel  in  green  had 
placed  her.  When  she  thus  reached  the 
Portal  of  Truth,  the  scene  that  opened 
upon  her  view  was  magnificent  in  the  ex- 
treme. The  gate,  at  her  first  approach, 
was  beautiful,  and  superior  to  any  thing  of 
the  kind  she  had  witnessed  before;  but 
now,  Oh !  how  that  beauty  had  become 
heightened !  It  shone  as  if  ten  thousand 
rays  of  the  noon-day  sun  had  concentrated 
themselves,  and  become  solidified  into  the 
form  of  a  magnificent  gate ;  and  the  letters 
of  gold,  over  the  gate,  were  like  flames 
from  an  ardent  burning  furnace. 

Aucune  entered,  trembling  through  fear 
lest  she  should  injure  something  belonging 
to  this  glorious  place.  The  first  circum- 
stance that  struck  her,  was  the  mighty  in- 
tensity of  the  light.  It  seemed  to  her  as 
if  she  had  been  placed  in  the  midst  of  a 
diamond,  with  all  its  glittering  rays  beam- 
ing with  double  refulgence ;  yet  it  was  not 
painful.  The  heat  which  accompanied  it 
ran  through  her  whole  soul,  producing  a 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.       135 

holy  love  and  veneration  for  all  around. 
By  and  by,  she  was  joined  by  her  conduct- 
ing angel,  and  she  set  out  upon  her  journey. 
On  the  road,  she  occasionally  saw  palaces. 
In  her  former  endeavors  to  arrive  at  the 
Immortal  Fountain,  she  had  observed  build- 
ings, but  perceived  nothing  remarkable 
connected  with  them.  One  thing  she  had 
noticed,  during  her  visits,  which  appeared 
very  wonderful ;  every  succeeding  time  she 
came,  she  saw  new  beauties  upon  all  the 
objects  around.  Those  which  looked  dull 
and  uninteresting  at  first,  now  were  spread 
over  with  wonders  ;  every  bird,  every  tree, 
every  flower,  yea,  every  blade  of  grass, 
called  forth  a  burst  of  admiration  and  sur- 
prise. The  palaces  were  built  of  polished 
marble,  having  steps  of  alabaster  in  front, 
and  at  the  sides  of  the  steps  were  pillars 
of  jasper,  supporting  a  rainbow  roof.  Be- 
neath this  roof,  angels,  dressed  in  long 
flowing  robes  of  white,  were  walking,  two 
and  two.  Aucune  asked  her  guide  who 
the  angels  were.     He  told  her  that  they 


136      THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

were  now  inhabitants  of  those  beautiful 
palaces,  where  they  lived  in  unspeakable 
happiness  ;  but  that  formerly  they  had  lived 
in  the  world  in  which  she  lived,  and  that 
while  there  they  had  always  been  kind  and 
gentle  to  all,  and  had  done  good  from  a 
sense  of  truth,  which  taught  them  how 
right,  and  just,  and  happy,  it  was  to  do 
good  to  every  one — how  beautifully  reason- 
able to  have  faith  in,  and  then  to  obey  God. 
"  One  of  their  pleasures,"  said  he,  "is,  to 
walk  in  the  colonnade  before  their  palaces, 
just  as  you  see  them  now,  enjoying  the  fra- 
grant breeze,  and  inspecting  the  various  ob- 
jects around.  So  holy  are  they  that  they 
perceive  something  to  cause  them  to  adore 
their  God  in  eveiy  thing  they  see,  and  raise 
their  thoughts  above,  and  feel  conscious  of 
the  wisdom  to  which  the  outward  form  of 
the  objects  corresponds.  They  think  also, 
if  this  simple  thing  is  so  wonderfully  beau- 
tiful, how  wondrous,  then,  must  be  the 
beauty  of  the  Almighty  Giver !  If  they 
behold   objects   of    use,    (and   with  them 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.      137 

nothing  is  without  use,)  they  are  hushed 
into  humility  by  the  contemplation  of  Him 
from  whom  all  uses  are  derived. "  Aucune 
passed  on,  thinking  within  herself,  how 
happy  is  the  lot  of  those  who  lead  a  life  of 
righteousness  on  earth;  and  wondering 
how  she  could  have  been  guilty  of  so  much 
folly  as  to  wish  to  do  harm  to  her  now  be- 
loved sister  Chacune. 

As  they  went  along,  Aucune  asked  va- 
rious questions  respecting  the  things  she 
met ;  amongst  the  rest,  how  it  was  that 
every  thing  seemed  to  be  so  perfectly  in 
harmony  with  her  thoughts  and  desires  ? 
for  she  observed,  when  she  was  thinking 
how  very  innocent  and  harmless  those  an- 
gels must  be,  whom  they  had  seen  walking 
before  their  palaces,  that  a  dove  appeared 
upon  a  tree  near  her,  and  a  lamb  grazing 
beneath  the  tree,  which  Avere  perfect  types 
of  innocence  and  harmlessness.  The  an- 
gel told  her  that  that  was  a  circumstance 
peculiar  to  the  spiritual  world.  "All 
things,"  said  he,  "  which  we  behold  here, 


138  THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN* 

are  representative  of  our  thoughts  and  de- 
sires. What  you  now  see  is  an  embodi- 
ment of  the  particular  principles  of  our 
minds.  You  behold  all  things  here  as 
beautiful ;  the  reason  of  that  is,  because 
beauty  is  the  form  of  goodness,  and  you 
have  now  become  good.  When  you  first 
came,  and  had  still  many  sinful  desires  and 
evil  thoughts,  nothing  you  then  saw  looked 
half  so  lovely.  When  you  looked  at  the 
palaces,  you  only  beheld  them  as  common 
buildings  ;  the  jasper  pillars,  and  alabaster 
steps  and  rainbow  roof,  you  saw  not.  And, 
if  you  remember,  the  garments  you  receiv- 
ed at  first,  were  not  perfectly  clean,  with 
here  and  there  a  black  spot  upon  them ; 
that  was  because  your  mind  had  many  im- 
pure thoughts,  and  black  affections ;  but 
now  since  you  have  become  good,  your 
garments  are  elegant  and  shining,  your 
head,  which  was  uncovered,  is  now  wreath- 
ed with  diamonds.  Those  contented  look- 
ing sheep,  which  appear  to  be  so  calmly 
grazing  in  yon  rich  pasture,  are  but  types 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.       139 

of  your  own  peaceful  state."  "How  strange 
it  is,"  thought  Aucune,  "but  I  see  how  true 
it  is ;  it  is  true,  because  it  is  the  best  way 
of  making  us  acquainted  with  our  faults. 
Every  beast,  every  bird,  yes,  every  object 
we  behold,  is  thus  made  a  mirror  to  reflect 
our  inward  souls  upon  our  external  senses, 
so  that  we  cannot  possibly  mistake  our 
quality."  She  continued  meditating  upon 
this  subject  for  some  time,  when  she  was 
aroused  by  the  sound  of  some  distant  har- 
monious music,  which  fell  upon  her  ear 
like  the  ripple  of  a  gentle  stream.  The 
sound  became  nearer  and  nearer.  It  was 
caught  in  succession  by  the  inmates  of  the 
various  palaces.  Presently,  every  palace 
in  the  whole  surrounding  country  sent 
forth  one  universal  sound  of  praise  The 
song  was  this : — 

"  Oh !  what  wonders  does  the  Lord 
Set  before  His  creature's  eye, 
To  bless,  preserve,  and  we'll  record, 
How  we  may  mount  to  realms  on  high. 
Oh !  how  high  ! 


140  THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

Each  plant,  each  beast,  declares  the  theme, 
The  silent  brooks  His  glories  tell, 
Nor  is  there  aught  on  earth  too  mean 
To  say  that  He  hath  done  things  well. 
Oh  !  how  well !" 

Aucune  almost  unconsciously  echoed 
back  the  loud  swelling  song,  for  it  had 
struck  in  unison  the  chord  of  her  heart 
that  was  most  awakened.  Shortly  it  died 
away.  She  asked  the  angel  what  was  the 
meaning  of  so  general  a  song.  "  These 
glorifications,"  said  he,  "  are  occasionally 
heard,  when  all  the  angels  have  a  very 
strong  perception  of  the  goodness  of  the 
Lord ;  they  are  now  adoring  Him  for  the 
many  blessings  they  enjoy.  They  are  made 
sensible  that  nothing  has  been  made  in 
vain,  but  that  all  things  have  been  made 
by  God,  for  our  comfort  and  happiness. 
This  feeling  of  praise  continually  keeps 
increasing,  till  at  last,  it  bursts  forth  from 
one ;  it  is  then  .speedily  taken  up  by  the 
rest,  and  made  to  resound  through  all  the 
heaven." 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.       141 

They  journeyed  onward,  meeting  many 
wonderful  things,  till  at  last,  they  arrived 
at  another  gate,  which  appeared  as  if  made 
of  gold.  As  soon  as  Aucune  saw  this 
gate,  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  pass  it, 
and  exclaimed  "  Not  yet !  "  "  Not  yet !  " 
was  echoed  back  by  some  one  within ;  she 
started  at  the  sound,  and  wondered  who  it 
could  be,  though  it  confirmed  what  she 
thought;  yet  the  words  were  uttered  in 
such  a  sweet  tone,  and  with  so  much  com- 
passion, that  it  seemed  like  love  itself  speak- 
ing. She  asked  her  guide  what  she  had 
still  to  do  before  she  could  bathe  in  the 
Immortal  Waters.  "  We  will  knock,  and 
hear  what  the  angel  at  the  gate  will  say," 
said  her  conductor.  They  went  up,  and 
knocked.  The  gate  was  opened  by  an 
angel  clothed  in  purple,  who  welcomed 
them  in.  After  having  sat  down,  the  angel 
in  purple  said,  "  I  perceive,  from  the  coun- 
tenance of  this  young  immortal,  that  she 
is  desirous  of  bathing  in  the  Immortal  Wa- 
ters. Now  these  waters  are  situated  upon 
h 


142      THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

the  top  of  Mount  Innocence,  at  some  dis- 
tance hence,  and  the  atmosphere  which 
surrounds  them  is  so  pure  that  none  but 
the  purest  of  beings  can  approach  them. 
She  would  not  be  able  to  sustain  so  much 
purity;  the  motives  from  which  she  has 
hitherto  acted,  have  been  tinctured  with 
somewhat  of  self.  The  one  she  has  acted 
from  latterly  has  been  the  purest  of  any, 
but  still,  that  is  not  void  of  self.  In  this 
heaven,  we  do  good,  not  from  the  remem- 
brance of  the  benefits  we  have  received, 
or  from  an  idea  of  having  something  given 
to  us,  but  because  we  love  what  is  good, 
for  its  own  sake,  and  do  it  because  it  will 
bless  others.  But,  mind  you,  when  we  do 
this,  we  do  not  think  that  we  are  doing  it 
ourselves,  for  we  know  that  of  ourselves 
alone  we  are  nothing  but  vile  and  sinful, 
but  we  feel  that  all  the  good  we  do  is  in- 
fused into  us  from  the  Lord.  Pride,  re- 
specting our  own  excellence,  never  enters 
our  bosoms,  for  we  plainly  perceive  that 
the  good  we  possess  is  not  our  own.      We 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.      143 

strive  to  imitate  our  Father  who  made  us. 
He  does  good,  not  because  He  has  had 
some  benefits  conferred  upon  Him,  or  be- 
cause He  expects  any ;  for  who  can  confer 
a  benefit  upon  Him  from  whom  all  benefits 
are  derived  ?  But  He  does  it  because  He 
loves  to  do  good,  and  bless  His  creatures. 
Endeavor,  then,  to  attain  this  best  of  all 
motives.  I  know  you  will  find  it  difficult 
at  the  commencement ;  but  persevere,  and 
implore  our  Father's  help,  and  you  will 
ultimately  succeed." 

Aucune  retired  from  the  presence  of  the 
angel,  almost  despairing  of  ever  obtaining 
a  sight  of  the  Immortal  Fountain ;  but  she 
remembered  how  she  had  been  enabled  to 
overcome  the  evil  motives  that  had  been 
previously  pointed  out  to  her ;  how  the 
Lord  had  supported  her  when  she  was  near 
entering  into  forbidden  things ;  how  He  had 
calmed  and  quieted  her  doubts  and  fears, 
and  had  always  made  her  even  more  than 
a  conqueror  over  her  base  and  impure  af- 
fections.    "  Can  I,"  said  Aucune,   "  doubt 


144  THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

that  He  will  enable  me  to  act  from  this, 
which  the  angel  has  called  the  purest  of 
motives  ? 

No,  I  cannot : 
He  who  brought  me  hitherto, 
Will  help  me  all  the  journey  through." 

She  returned  to  the  world  not  at  all  cast 
down,  and  played  cheerfully  with  her  sister 
Chacune ;  and  Chacune  loved  her  dearly, 
much  more  than  she  did  while  she  was  so 
naughty,  though  even  then  she  loved  her 
anxiously,  and  tried  to  win  her  to  God  and 
goodness.  Indeed,  every  one  began  to 
love  Aucune  almost  as  well  as  Chacune. 
The  sweet  temper  which  she  had  begun  to 
manifest  since  she  first  entered  the  spiritual 
world,  made  her  face  lose  its  scowling  as- 
pect, and  gather  beauty  continually ;  for  it 
was  chiefly  her  pining,  and  cross  temper, 
that  made  her  so  very  unlovely  before. 
Every  thing  that  she  attempted  to  do  now, 
whether  it  was  to  cultivate  flowers,  or  train 
her  rose  trees,  or  work  beautiful  net,  or 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.  145 

whatever  else  it  was,  she  succeeded  well 
with.  The  reason  of  this  was,  because, 
before  she  was  too  proud  and  conceited  to 
be  taught ;  but  now  she  was  content,  and 
happy  to  receive  instruction,  and  thereby 
to  understand  fully  how  these  things  could 
be  best  performed.  The  lambs  that  fed  in 
her  father's  meadow,  which  before  had 
always  shunned  her,  now  became  fond  of 
her.  They  would  run  to  meet  her,  and 
frisk  about,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  O  how 
glad  we  are  that  Aucune  has  become  a 
good  girl."  The  pretty  birds,  which  used 
only  to  sing  for  Chacune,  now  began  to 
sing  for  her.  In  fact,  every  thing  and 
every  person  seemed  to  be  pleased  with 
Aucune,  and  to  strive  to  make  her  happy. 
She,  in  the  mean  time,  endeavored  to 
act  from  the  motive  mentioned  to  her  by 
the  angel.  Several  times  she  had  to  re- 
turn, after  having  passed  the  golden  gate  ; 
but  each  time  she  had  succeeded  better 
and  better,  which  gave  her  hope.  At  last, 
she  went  and  succeeded.      As  she  entered 

L* 


146  THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

the  golden  gate,  a  company  of  angels  ad- 
vanced to  meet  her.  Their  countenances 
bespoke  incessant  love.  Their  robes  were 
composed  of  rich  purple  velvet.  Around 
their  heads  they  had  wreaths  of  the  choicest 
flowers,  with  here  and  there  a  ruby  send- 
ing forth  its  beautiful  light;  and  behind 
the  ear  of  each  was  placed  an  olive  leaf. 
As  they  approached,  they  sung ;  the  words 
were  these, — 

"Worthy  are  they, 

To  pass  this  way, 

Who  supremely  love  the  Lord, 

And  do  His  word." 

Each  kissed  her  as  they  came  near,  and 
said,  "  You  are  now  our  sister."  She  was 
immediately  clad  with  robes  similar  to  those 
around  her;  and  one  of  them,  who  was 
more  beautiful  and  commanding  than  the 
rest,  invested  her  with  the  badge  of  their 
heaven,  by  placing  behind  her  ear  the  olive 
leaf.  "  Come  now  to  the  Immortal  Foun- 
tain," said  he,  "the  barriers  to  this  sacred 
spring  are  all  passed ;  peace  and  tranquil- 
ity shall  henceforth  be  your  companions ; 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN.  147 

joy  and  gladness  shall  forever  attend  upon 
you,  and  we  will  be  your  protecting  friends." 
They  led  her  on  towards  the  Fountain. 
Her  path  was  upon  beds  of  velvet  flowers ; 
the  air  surpassed  in  sweetness  all  that  she 
had  ever  breathed  before,  sweet  as  that  had 
been.  The  light  of  the  diamond  became 
dim  when  the  brightness  of  the  light  of  this 
heaven  was  permitted  to  shine  upon  it.  At 
last  she  came  to  the  Fountain.  Some  an- 
gels were  bathing  ;  they  were  the  loveliest 
forms  she  had  ever  beheld.  She  went,  and 
looked  in  J  she  saw  the  face  of  one  beam- 
ing with  joy  and  beauty.  She  continued 
to  admire  this  lovely  countenance,  when, 
just  as  she  was  about  to  enquire  whose  it 
was,  her  sister  Chacune  came,  and  caught 
hold  of  her,  and  kissed  her.  "  Oh !  my 
beloved  Aucune,"  said  she,  "  long  have  I 
wished  to  behold  you  standing  on  the  brink 
of  these  blessed  waters,  so  that  I  could 
show  you  how  beautiful  you  are:  that 
lovely  face  you  admire  so  much,  is  yours.' ' 
Aucune  looked  again,  and  when  she  really 
found  that  it  was  the  shadow  of  her  own 


148       THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

countenance,  she  was  astonished.  "  I  have 
not  bathed  yet,"  said  she.  "  True,  you 
have  not  been  immersed  in  this  type  of  the 
Holy  Water,"  said  Chacune,  "  but  the  true 
water  itself  from  the  River  of  Life,  has 
been  sprinkled  on  your  interior  parts.  Re- 
member how  full  of  filth  and  vileness  you 
once  were,  and  then  think  of  the  holy  com- 
mands which  were  given  to  you  by  the  an- 
gels to  make  you  pure.  That  was  the 
water  of  the  True  Immortal  Fountain." 
"  I  understand  it  all,"  exclaimed  Aucune. 
"  When  you  used  to  tell  me  to  clean  first 
the  inside,  and  the  outside  would  certainly 
be  clean,  I  could  not  understand  it ;  but 
now  I  see  its  meaning:  internal  worth, 
brings  external  beauty.  O,  Chacune,  how 
much  I  have  to  love  you  for."  They  re- 
turned to  the  world,  where  they  continued 
to  be  loved  by  all  who  knew  them,  until  it 
pleased  the  Lord  to  make  them  entirely  in- 
habitants of  the  spiritual  world.  After  this, 
I  awoke. 

[LONDON  MAGAZINE. 


T.lihN     1,0  3'T    'Klvr^U. 


AZIL: 

OR 

THE  LOST  FOUND. 

In  a  distant,  and  now  forgotten  kingdom, 
dwelt  once  a  shepherd  and  his  adopted  son. 
The  old  man  was  feeble  from  age,  but  his 
countenance  still  expressed  strength  and 
goodness  of  mind.  Peace  dwelt  in  shining 
light  upon  his  high  and  noble  brow,  over 
which  waved  the  blessed  silver  hair  of  age  ; 
while,  round  his  mouth,  there  seemed  to 
be  continually  the  shadow  of  a  smile ;  his 
eyes,  also,  beamed  with  love  and  kind- 
ness. 

When  the  young  Azil  was  but  a  child 
of  about  two  years  old,  the  shepherd  found 
him  in  a  wood  near  his  cottage,  wandering 
about  as  though  in   search   of  some  one. 


150 


AZIL  :    OR  THE 


Tears  stood  in  the  lovely  child's  eyes ;  but 
with  a  singular  sort  of  pride,  he  seemed  to 
restrain  his  grief,  and,  holding  his  head 
erect,  looked  proudly  up  at  the  stranger. 
At  first,  he  was  unwilling  to  go  with  him ; 
but,  after  a  short  time,  the  benevolent  as- 
pect and  kind  tones  of  the  shepherd  won 
him,  and,  putting  his  hand  in  that  of  his 
protector,  went  to  his  new  home. 

Azil  was  now  fourteen.  The  years  which 
had  passed  over  the  child,  making  him  a 
noble  youth,  had  bowed  the  then  old  shep- 
herd with  the  feebleness  of  age ;  and  he 
who  had  once  been  the  protector,  was  now 
the  protected. 

The  shepherd  was  a  friend  to  AziPs 
mind  as  well  as  to  his  body.  In  his  youth, 
he  had  been  highly  educated  ;  and,  moving 
in  a  courtly  circle,  his  experience  was  large, 
combining  knowledge  of  the  outward  and 
the  inner  worlds.  Numerous  sorrows,  how- 
ever, the  loss  of  his  parents  and  of  his 
lovely  bride,  had  led  him  to  give  up  his 
large  possessions  to  a  poor  but  worthy  re- 


LOST  FOUND,  151 

lation,  and  retire  to  this  quiet  cottage, 
where  he  hoped  to  attain  that  peace  and 
quietness  which  the  world  cannot  give. 
His  pure  heart  taught  him  to  reverence  the 
bountiful  works  of  God ;  and  in  every  little 
production  of  nature  he  learned  some  les- 
son which  enlarged  his  mind ;  and  in  re- 
gaining his  lost  peace,  he  grew  also  in 
wisdom.  Thus  was  he  a  fit  instructor  for 
the  child  Providence  had  placed  in  his 
care. 

Azil  began  early  to  show  a  bold,  im- 
petuous temper — fearless,  but  rash;  and 
his  kind  protector,  whom  he  now  called 
father,  every  day  found  new  cause  to  watch 
him  more  carefully ;  but,  with  all  this,  he 
was  so  loving  and  obedient,  so  noble  and 
unselfish,  that  the  shepherd  had  every  rea- 
son to  be  full  of  courage  and  hope  that  he 
should  succeed  in  making  him  a  truly  wise 
and  benevolent  man.  He  intended  fitting 
him,  both  externally  and  iuternally,  for  that 
world  which  he  had  left  as  a  lone,  heart- 
broken man ;  but  now  that  he  had  a  son 


152  AZIL  :    OR  THE 

to  love  and  teach,  he  wished  to  return  with 
him.  Besides,  he  knew  that  it  is  better  for 
men  to  dwell  together  ;  and  he  hoped,  after 
he  had  completed  Azil's  education,  that  he 
would  be  capable  of  doing  much  to  help 
his  fellow  beings  by  the  exercise  of  a  good 
and  true  love  towards  them,  expressed  in 
generous,  unselfish  acts,  which  would  be  of 
use  to  some,  while  his  example  would  bene- 
fit others.  When  the  shepherd  had  left  the 
court  and  given  up  his  wealth,  he  still  re- 
tained sufficient  for  necessary  wants,  (his 
flock  of  sheep  were  companions,)  and  al- 
so had  brought  with  him,  to  this  retired 
valley,  his  large  and  excellent  library. 
Thus,  with  his  own  enlarged  and  highly 
cultivated  mind,  and  these  books,  he  had 
it  in  his  power  to  teach  this  dear  youth,  as 
well,  perhaps  better,  than  he  could  have 
been  taught  in  any  other  situation. 

Azil  delighted  in  study,  and  when,  to- 
gether, they  tended  the  flock  of  sheep,  he 
listened  eagerly  to  all  the  lessons  so  freely 
and  kindly  given.     Years  passed  away  in 


LOST  FOUND.  153 

study  and  amusement,  and  gradually,  his 
rash  fearlessness  was  becoming  true  cour- 
age ;  and  his  bold,  fiery  temper,  a  spirited 
determination  to  be  right,  and  do  right,  and 
help  others  too. 

He  seemed  to  have  naturally  a  great 
love  for  battle,  and  in  reading  warlike  tales, 
would  often  wish  he  were  a  warrior.  The 
shepherd,  one  day,  finding  him  busily 
employed  with  some  wooden  sticks,  that 
he  had  stuck  into  the  ground,  and  which 
he  called  soldiers,  sat  down  by  him,  and 
interested  himself  in  Azil's  feelings.  He 
had  formerly  been  a  great  warrior,  and  had 
fought  in  several  battles ;  he  had  also  been 
in  the  habit  of  instructing  his  troops  in  va- 
rious manoeuvres,  some  of  which  had  been 
singularly  successful  over  the  enemy ;  he 
now  felt  his  youthful  fire  return,and  in  teach- 
ing Azil  these  not  forgotten  manoeuvres,  by 
the  help  of  numerous  wooden  sticks  for 
men,  he  passed  many  happy  hours.  At  the 
same  time  he  sought  to  give  his  attentive 

M 


154  AZIL  :    OR  THE 

pupil  a  strong  and  true  idea  of  war,  both 
in  its  good  and  bad  light ;  and  while  teach- 
ing him  how  to  fight  a  battle  with  men,  he 
also  instilled  into  his  pure  young  heart  a  de- 
sire to  fight  against  all  evil  thoughts  and 
feelings. 

#  #  *  #  *  #  Azil 
was  now  a  youth  of  eighteen ;  tall,  finely 
formed,  and  seeming  already  a  man  in 
strength  and  wisdom.  Intelligence  and  af- 
fection mingled  their  beautiful  light  in  his 
clear  eyes ;  noble  courage  was  expressed 
in  his  step,  and  truth  seemed  shining  from 
every  feature. 

He  no  longer  tended  sheep :  during  the 
last  year  he  had  devoted  himself  to  contin- 
ual and  earnest  study,  for  his  adopted 
father  had  said,  "One  year  more  of  study, 
and  then  we  will  go  hence,"  and  the 
year  was  almost  gone.  One  lovely  even- 
ing they  were  sitting  together  at  the  door 
of  their  humble  cottage,  watching  the  go- 
ing down  of  the  sun,  and  conversing. 
Lofty   thoughts   Avere  expressed  in  Azil's 


LOST  FOUND.  155 

bright,  uplifted  eyes,  and  his  glowing  cheeks 
proved  his  interest,  and  earnest  wish  to 
succeed  in  the  noble  undertaking  which  the 
good  old  shepherd  now  unfolded  to  him 
more  clearly  than  ever  before  :  he  was  to 
live  for  others  ;  to  live  a  life  of  use  and  be- 
nevolence to  those  who  needed  help,  who 
knew  less,  or  were  less  strong  than  he,  and 
with  the  shepherd  he  prayed  earnestly  that 
God  would  give  him  strength  to  do  all 
this  and  at  the  same  time  keep  him  humble. 
Scarcely  had  they  finished  their  prayer, 
than  they  were  startled  by  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs  not  far  distant,  and  the  inspir- 
ing sound  of  martial  music ;  and  present- 
ly they  saw  emerging  from  the  woods  near 
by,  a  knight,  arrayed  in  complete  armor, 
made  of  exquisitely  carved  steel,  which 
sparkled  in  the  setting  sun  like  chrystals; 
but  his  glorious  beaming  helmet  was  of 
gold,  from  which  waved  scarlet  and  violet 
plumes.  His  sword,  which  hung  at  his 
side,  was  richly  adorned  with  diamonds 
forming  a  star,  which  sparkled  with  intense 


156  AZIL  :    OR  THE 

brightness.  But  his  charger !  no  wonder 
Azil's  eyes  shone  with  a  new  delight :  this 
splendid  warrior  was  mounted  on  a  trained 
but  spirited  war  horse,  of  the  most  mag- 
nificent breed  ;  such  an  one  Azil  had  never 
seen  before.  He  was  indeed  most  admi- 
rably built,  and  his  step  was  so  graceful  and 
light,  that  the  &oft  green  turf  seemed  quite 
insensible  of  his  tread. 

Behind  this  glorious  knight  rode  a  nu- 
merous band,  who  were  clad  like  their  lead- 
er, save  that  upon  their  swords  glittered  no 
star. 

Riding  up  to  the  cottage  and  dismount- 
ing- from  his  steed,  the  knight,  lifting  his 
visor,  looked  eagerly  at  the  old  man  and 
Azil.  Instantly  he  took  his  helmet  off, 
and  made  a  low  salutation  to  the  latter. 

"  I  am  satisfied  ; — the  traitor  has  told  the 
truth ;"  said  he  in  a  loud,  sonorous  voice, 
and  instantly  the  whole  troop  dismounted 
and  uncovered  their  heads. 

"What  means  this?"  asked  the  shep- 
herd in  surprise.     "  Sir,"  replied  the  court- 


LOST  FOUND.  157 

ly  stranger,  "  at  the  command  of  the  king's 
nephew,  who  would  succeed  to  his  uncle's 
reign  if  his  cousin  were  dead,  a  false 
knight  stole  the  king's  young  son  Azil,  but 
not  having  the  courage  to  kill  him,  he  left 
him  in  this  wood,  which  is  far  from  even 
the  outskirts  of  our  kingdom.  Shortly 
after,  the  king  died,  and  the  queen  shut  her- 
self up,  grieving  for  the  loss  of  her  only 
child.  The  nephew  ascended  the  throne, 
but  he  has  been  constantly  embroiled  in 
war  with  his  neighbors,  and  has  nearly 
ruined  his  own  kingdom  by  his  tyranny. 
The  traitor  whom  he  employed  to  destroy 
his  young  cousin,  on  his  death-bed  confess- 
ed his  crime,  at  the  same  time  saying  that 
he  saw  Azil  taken  by  a  shepherd,  while  he 
was  concealed  in  a  tree  near  by.  Hoping 
that  we  should  find  the  son  of  our  beloved 
king  yet  alive,  we  have  come  this  long  dis- 
tance, and  now  it  is  plain  by  his  astonish- 
ing resemblance  to  the  noble  queen  his 
mother,  that  he  is  the  one  we  seek." 


158  AZIL  I    OR  THE 

The  shepherd  bowed  and  said,  "I  think 
I  can  bring  you  yet  more  convincing 
proofs ;  "  and  going  into  the  cottage  he 
presently  returned,  bringing  a  miniature  of 
a  beautiful  woman,  simply  dressed,  and  in 
a  plain  gold  case,  set  round  with  pearls ; 
on  the  back  Avas  inscribed,  "For  my  son, 
Azil;"  and  the  child  had  of  himself  told 
the  shepherd  that  that  was  his  name. 

"  Ah,  it  is  indeed  true  ;  this  is  our  queen 
as  she  was  when  her  son  was  two  years 
old:"  so  saying  he  turned  to  Azil  and  bow- 
ing gracefully,  continued  ;  "  to-night  we 
will  rest  with  you,  but  on  the  morrow,  we 
will  conduct  you,  as  our  lord  and  king,  to 
the  queen  your  mother,  who  still  lives,  and 
still  hopes  to  see  her  son  in  this  life." 

The  knight's  followers  pitched  their  tents 
in  the  valley  on  the  border  of  the  wood,  but 
their  noble  leader  entered  the  cottage  of 
the  old  shepherd.  He  then  learned  from 
this  good  and  noble  man,  of  the  educa- 
tion which  Azil  had  received,  and  which  so 
well  fitted  him  for  a  monarch,  who  should 


LOST  FOUND.  159 

know  how,  more  than  any  one  else,  to  live 
for  the  good  of  his  people. 

The  knight  was  particularly  pleased  at 
the  warlike  part  of  his  education,  for  he 
said  that  there  must  be  a  battle,  because 
the  infamous  cousin,  who  was  still  king, 
would  not  resign,  and  that  it  was  therefore 
necessary  for  prince  Azil  to  be  prepared  to 
place  himself  at  the  head  of  his  army. 

The  next  day,  at  early  dawn,  they  left 
the  cottage  where  so  many  years  had  been 
spent  in  quiet  peacefulness  by  the  old  man 
and  the  young  king.  They  went  from  the 
still  calm  valley,  to  a  fierce  tumultuous 
war,  which  however  did  not  last  long. 
Azil's  remarkable  likeness  to  his  mother, 
his  graceful,  lofty  bearing,  the  goodness  and 
benevolence  enthroned  on  his  brow,  brought 
all  to  his  side,  and  soon  his  false  cousin  had 
no  army  to  fight  for  him. 

4U  4k  \     4t*  M.  M,  M,  M? 

■w  TTC"  TP  w  w  w  tt 

Azil  thus  was  restored  to  his  mother, 
and  to  his  father's  throne ;  he  kept  always 
near  him  the  old  man,  who  had  been  in- 


160  STERLING  WORTH. 

deed  a  true  father  to  him,  and  notwithstand- 
ing his  age,  for  many  years  continued  to 
listen  to  his  truthful  counsels.  His  king- 
dom was  soon  flourishing  and  peaceful, 
and  during  a  long  reign  he  was  most  ten- 
derly loved  by  his  subjects,  for  whose  hap- 
piness and  welfare  he  took  the  greatest 
care. 


STERLING  WORTH. 


FROM  BLUMANER. 


Act  with  a  man  as  you  would  with  a 
piece  of  money:  if  his  edge  be  rough,  and 
his  voice  ring  honestly,  extend  your  hand 
freely  to  receive  him ;  if  he  be  smoothed 
down  by  intercourse  with  the  world,  be  not 
so  eager  for  his  company;  but  if  he  be 
clipped  by  fashion,  avoid  him  altogether. 


THE  MISER. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  BLUMANER. 

A  miser  fell  into  a  stream  ;  'twas  wide, 

And  deep,  and  rapid  ;  speedily  to  save 

His  life,  a  fisherman  leapt  in  and  cried 

There  was  no  danger,  if  his  hand  he'd  give. 

The  miser,  as  the  waters  gurgled  round, 

Cried,  '« I  can  give  thee  nothing!  "  and  was  drowned. 


FROM  LESSING. 

"  I  have  a  question  to  ask,"  said  a  young 
Eagle  to  a  learned  Owl.  "  They  say 
there's  a  bird  called  Merops,  who  when  he 
rises  into  the  air  flies  tail  foremost,  with 
his  head  towards  the  ground.    Is  that  true?" 

"No,"  replied  the  Owl,  "that  is  a  silly 
invention  of  man.  He  himself  may  be 
such  a  Merops ;  for  he  would  be  too  hap- 
py to  fly  up  to  heaven,  without  leaving  the 
earth  for  an  instant  out  of  sight." 


THE  GOOD  SON. 


BY  REV.  E.  MAWGIN. 


Some  years  ago,  in  a  small  town,  or  rather 
village,  in  England,  there  lived  a  clergy- 
man, who  had  the  care  of  a  parish  in  the 
neighborhood.  He  was  married  to  a  very 
gentle  and  amiable  young  lady,  and  had  a 
son,  who,  at  the  time  when  this  history  be- 
gins, was  about  five  years  old.  They  lived 
in  a  neat  and  pretty  small  house,  which 
they  called  Primrose  Cottage,  because  it 
was  originally  of  the  color  of  a  primrose ; 
though  afterwards  it  was  hardly  possible  to 
know  the  color  of  the  building,  as  it  was 
nearly  covered  with  iyv  and  honeysuckle. 
Here  they  lived ;  poor,  but  contented  and 
happy,  because  they  were  both  good,  and 
greatly  beloved.  The  wife  was  loved,  be- 
cause she  used  to  help  the  sick  and  needy 


THE  GOOD  SON.  163 

with  physic  and  cheap  food ;  and  now  and 
then  by  giving  a  piece  of  flannel  or  linen 
to  such  as  wanted  clothes  in  the  winter 
time  for  themselves  or  their  little  ones  ;  and 
by  her  way  of  doing  this,  and  a  civil  man- 
ner of  speaking  to  the  people,  she  won 
their  hearts  still  more.  The  clergyman,  on 
his  side,  gained  general  respect  and  good 
will,  by  doing  all  his  duties,  public  and 
private,  with  perfect  regularity,  and  as  if 
he  took  true  pleasure  in  these,  and  in  no- 
thing else.  He  was  a  real  priest  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and  used  no  new  forms 
or  fashions  in  praying  or  preaching;  with  the 
sorrowful  and  the  dying  among  his  flock,  he 
was  sad  and  solemn;  and  when  he  could  not 
console  them  otherwise,  would  show  that 
he  at  least  felt  for  their  misfortunes.  But 
with  the  young,  the  gay,  and  the  happy, 
he  seemed  happy  and  gay  himself,  and  en- 
couraged them  in  their  sports  and  games ; 
and  when  they  played  cricket  or  football, 
or  danced,  he  would  look  on  delighted,  as 
he  sat  in  his  green  arm  chair  on  the.  little 


164  THE  GOOD  SON. 

grassplat  before  his  own  door ;  while  his 
wife  worked  at  her  needle,  seated  near 
him  ;  and  their  healthy,  cheerful  boy  played 
in  their  sight. 

These  were  their  joyful  times  :  both  were 
young;  and,  if  they  had  not  fortune,  they 
had  hope  to  enliven  them ;  and  when  they 
had  an  hour  to  spare  from  their  different 
duties,  they  passed  that  hour  in  laying 
plans  for  the  happiness  of  their  dear  child. 

One  day,  however,  the  clergyman,  on 
coming  home  after  the  church  service  was 
over,  was  silent  and  pale  ;  he  went  to  bed 
early  ;  the  next  morning,  he  could  not  rise  ; 
and  in  four  days  more,  he  was  dead. 

And  now  woe  came  where  joy  had  been, 
and  weeping  instead  of  smiles ;  and  where 
all  before  had  been  hope,  there  was  now 
nothing  but  despair.  A  new  clergyman 
arrived  to  fill  the  place  of  the  last ;  and 
the  poor,  forlorn,  and  friendless  mother 
was  obliged  to  lead  her  innocent  boy  by 
the  hand,  from  what  was  no  longer  their 
own^door,  and  to  bid  farewell  forever  to 
the  Primrose  Cottage. 


THE  GOOD  SON.  165 

Nothing  can  well  be  imagined  more  mis- 
erable than  the  unhappy  widow.  In  losing 
her  husband,  she  had  lost  her  protector  and 
her  beloved  companion,  and  almost  all  her 
means  of  supporting  herself,  and  one  she 
loved  more  than  herself,  her  little  son. 

She  had  no  friends,  except  among  the 
poor,  who  can  be  of  little  use  to  such  as  are 
poor  like  themselves ;  and  she  had  scarcely 
any  money  to  hire  a  lodging,  or  buy  a 
meal  to  eat.  But  something  she  must  do ; 
and  therefore  she  went  to  the  house  of  an 
humble  farmer,  a  good  man,  who  had 
known  her  in  better  times,  and  he  readily 
agreed  to  give  her  shelter  in  a  small  room 
that  looked  out  on  an  orchard  at  the"  back 
of  his  house,  in  which  there  was  a  bed  for 
herself,  and,  in  a  little  closet  behind  it,  a 
crib  for  her  boy. 

It  was  also  settled  that  they  should  share 
the  plain  food  which  the  farmer  and  his 
wife  were  contented  to  eat ;  and,  by  way 
of  paying  for  these  comforts,  the  poor  lady 

N  * 


166  THE  GOOD  SON. 

undertook  to  do  as  much  for  them  as  she 
was  able  to  perform.  By  degrees,  she 
made  herself  useful ;  and  she  was  so  gen- 
tle, and  sweet  tempered,  and  had  so  little 
pride,  that  at  last  they  perceived  that  they 
could  not  live  happily  without  her. 

Any  spare  time  she  had,  she  employed 
in  teaching  her  boy  to  read  and  write,  and 
when,  at  night,  he  was  in  bed  and  asleep, 
and  she  thought  no  one  observed  her,  she 
would,  many  a  time,  sit  down  and  weep  ; 
then  pray  to  God  for  her  son,  and  at  length 
go  to  sleep  herself.  In  this  manner,  and 
walking  with  him  in  the  orchard,  and  con- 
versing with  the  farmer  and  his  dame,  and 
seldom  being  heard  of,  or  spoken  to,  by 
any  body  else,  some  years  passed  over. 

Her  son  was  not  only  the  chief  object 
of  her  affection,  but  her  constant  com- 
panion'; and  so  fond  was  he  of  his  mother, 
and  so  grateful  to  her,  (the  proof  of  his 
having  a  noble  mind,)  that  he  would  hardly 
ever  leave  her ;  and  while  he  was  seated 
by  her  side,  as  children  must  do  something, 


THE  GOOD  SON.  167 

he  used  to  amuse  himself  with  cutting  little 
bits  of  wood  into  different  shapes,  or  mould- 
ing a  lump  of  bees'  wax,  which  the  farmer 
had  given  him,  into  the  resemblance,  as  he 
thought,  of  birds,  cows,  &c.  He  at  last 
finished  the  likeness  of  a  goat  in  wax,  so 
much  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  friends,  that 
the  farmer  grew  proud  of  showing  the  little 
figure  to  gentlemen  and  others  passing  by. 
One  day,  a  thin  old  man,  dressed  in  very 
poor  clothes,  stopped  for  many  minutes  to 
look  at  the  goat,  as  it  stood  in  the  parlor 
window ;  and  presently  coming  in,  asked 
very  humbly  to  be  allowed  to  examine  the 
waxen  figure.  The  farmer  was  pleased 
with  this,  and  said,  "  Sit  down,  old  man, 
and  look  at  it  as  long  as  you  like ;  and 
take  a  glass  of  strong  beer,  to  refresh  you." 
The  old  stranger,  sitting  down,  refused  the 
beer,  with  many  thanks;  but  desired  the 
farmer  to  tell  him,  if  possible,  who  made 
the  goat.  The  farmer  said  he  would  soon 
do  that ;  and,  calling  the  boy  from  his  mo- 
ther's little  room,  introduced  him  to  the  old 


16S  THE  GOOD  SON. 

man,  who  made  many  inquiries  about  him, 
as  who  he  was ;  how  old ;  and  who  was 
his  teacher  ?  The  boy  answered,  that  he 
lived  with  his  mother,  at  the  house  of  the 
good  farmer,  where  they  then  were ;  that 
he  was  nine  years  of  age ;  and  had  learned 
to  read  and  write  from  his  mother ;  but 
had  not  been  taught  to  carve  or  mould  by 
any  one.  The  stranger  then  asked,  with 
great  humility,  to  see  his  mother,  who  im- 
mediately came  out  to  him,  and  repeated 
the  information  the  boy  had  already  given 
him.  The  old  man  said  he  seemed  a  good 
child,  and  rather  ingenious;  that  he  him- 
self had  once,  in  his  better  days,  a  turn  for 
carving  sticks  and  stones,  and  liked  any 
thing  of  the  kind  ;  that  he  knew  a  stone 
mason  in  the  next  village,  who  Avould,  he 
thought,  give  the  poor  boy  something  to 
do  in  his  way,  if  his  mother  had  no  objec- 
tion ;  and  that,  with  her  leave,  he  would 
speak  of  him  to  the  mason,  on  his  road 
home. 

The  boy,  who  seldom  smiled,  smiled  now 


THE  GOOD  SON.  169 

at  the  notion  of  having  something  large  to 
carve.  The  mother  was  thankful  to  the 
old  stranger ;  only  she  was  rather  sad  at 
the  thought  of  her  boy  being  absent  from 
her  for  some  hours  every  day,  as  he  must 
be  if  employed;  but  the  good  hearted 
farmer  and  his  wife  advised  her  not  to  re- 
fuse the  offer,  if  the  mason  would  agree  to 
the  old  man's  plan ;  and  so  he  went  away. 
In  a  few  days  after  this  visit  from  the 
poor  old  stranger,  the  boy's  mother  re- 
ceived a  letter,  signed  N.,  but  nothing  more, 
telling  her,  that  if  her  son  would  go  along 
with  the  messenger  who  left  the  letter,  he 
would  take  him  to  the  mason  they  had 
spoken  of  together ;  and  as  the  distance 
was  but  about  half  a  mile,  the  exercise  of 
walking  would  do  him  good.  A  decent 
looking  countryman  waited  for  him ;  the 
mother  sighed,  but  let  him  go;  the  boy 
went,  half  joyful,  half  melancholy;  and 
the  farmer,  who  greatly  liked  the  child, 
would  go  with  him,  and  promised  to  bring 
him  back  on  his  return  from  market. 

N* 


170  THE  GOOD  SON. 

For  several  months,  this  obedient  child 
continued  to  attend  his  master,  the  mason, 
and  was  always  regular  in  returning  to  his 
mother  at  the  end  of  three  or  four  hours 
each  day.  To  her,  the  first  sound  of  his 
foot  and  sight  of  his  face  were  always 
welcome  ;  he  was  as  respectful  and  tender 
towards  her  as  ever ;  and,  in  fact,  in  no- 
thing was  he  changed,  except  in  what  is 
now  to  be  mentioned  ;  he  said  he  was  ex- 
ceedingly fond  of  the  work  he  had  to  do, 
and  that  his  master  praised  him ;  but  still 
he  made  a  sort  of  secret  of  what  he  was 
doing  while  away.  He  was  a  boy  of  an 
uncommon  character,  and  had  the  serious 
face,  and  the  sensible  words  in  talking,  of 
boys  three  years  older  than  himself ;  inso- 
much that  his  observing  mother  felt  a  sort 
of  respect  for  him,  and  allowed  him  to 
keep  his  secret  as  long  as  he  chose. 

Some  more  time  had  passed  in  this  man- 
ner, when,  towards  the  sunset  of  a  fine 
summer's  day,  as  the  melancholy  widow 
was  sitting  outside  of  the   cottage   door, 


THE  GOOD  SON.  171 

now  and  then  talking  to  her  son,  and  often 
looking  up  at  the  streaks  of  crimson  and 
gold  which  adorned  the  sky,  the  farmer 
came  home  much  later  than  he  usually  did, 
and  said  he  had  a  letter  for  mistress,  which 
he  was  desired  to  give  into  her  own  hands. 
The  widow  took  the  letter  into  her  apart- 
ment ;  but  presently  afterwards  rather  ran 
than  walked  out  again,  giving  the  letter  to 
the  farmer  and  his  wife  to  read ;  while  she 
herself,  shedding  many  tears,  threw  her 
arms  round  her  boy's  neck,  and  kissed  his 
cheeks,  crying  out,  "  My  dear,  my  excel- 
lent child ! "    ' 

The  farmer,  having  read  the  letter,  seem- 
ed as  much  astonished  and  rejoiced  as  she 
herself  was.  And  it  was  no  wonder  that 
those  who  loved  the  boy  and  wished  him 
well,  should  be  pleased  with  the  news  in 
the  letter.  It  was,  as  before,  signed  N., 
and  informed  the  delighted  mother  that  her 
son  had  made  a  model  in  clay  for  a  statue, 
and  sent  his  performance  to  him  in  Lon- 
don ;  that  he  had  shown  it  to  several  great 


172  THE  GOOD  SOx\T. 

judges  of  the  art ;  and  that  they,  as  a  re- 
ward, had  sent  the  mother,  for  the  use  of 
her  clever  boy,  the  sum  of  fifty  pounds. 

This  was  indeed  a  sum  much  larger  than 
she  had  been  mistress  of  for  many  a  long 
day,  and  at  once  gave  her  independency. 

Her  generous,  and  now  proud  and  hap- 
py boy,  put  a  bank-note  for  the  money  into 
his  mother's  hand  ;  and  was  going  to  speak, 
but  could  not ;  some  tears  fell  from  his  eyes 
on  his  mother's  cheek  as  she  embraced 
him ;  and  both  went — as  the  mother  said — 
to  walk  together  in  the  orchard ;  but  per- 
haps it  was  to  sit  down  and  weep  for  joy. 

They  could  now  afford,  in  some  measure, 
to  reward  the  kind  farmer  and  his  wife  for 
their  former  friendly  behavior,  by  making 
them  a  handsome  present ;  and  accordingly 
the  widow  bought  a  fine,  but  not  too  fine  a 
gown  for  the  wife,  and  a  most  beautiful 
young  spotted  cow  for  her  husband. 

But  wonders,  instead  of  ending  with 
what  had  just  happened,  were  only  begin- 
ning.     In  a  year  or  two  after,  the  ingen- 


THE  GOOD  SON.  173 

ious  youth,  who  was  more  and  more  pleas- 
ed with  his  employment,  made  a  statue  of 
white  marble,  and  wrote  to  his  friend  N.  to 
tell' him  what  he  had  done,  and  to  say  he 
was  ashamed  to  shew  his  work  to  any  one 
except  to  him ;  but  greatly  wished  that  he 
could  see  it. 

In  about  a  fortnight  from  this,  as  he  was 
returning  to  the  cottage  after  finishing  his 
work  for  the  day,  and  had  just  reached  the 
door,  he  heard  the  noise  of  carriage  wheels; 
and  scarcely  had  he  entered,  and  while  he 
was  yet  holding  his  mother's  hand  in  his,  a 
chariot  drove  up  and  stopped  ;  a  servant  in 
rich  livery  opened  the  carriage  door,  and, 
to  the  utter  amazement  of  the  boy,  his 
mother,  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  out  of  the 
carriage  came  poor  old  N.,  (for  they  knew 
him  by  no  other  name,)  dressed  much  as 
before ;  and,  as  before,  civil  and  humble  in 
his  look  and  way  of  speaking.  He  shook 
hands  with  them  all  round;  and,  seating 
himself,  said,  "  This  time  I  will  take  a  glass 
of  your  beer,  farmer :  I  have  rather  a  long 


174  THE  GOOD  SOX. 

story  to  tell ;  that  is,  a  long  one  for  me,  as 
I  am  not  fond  of  using  many  words." 
And  then,  having  drunk  his  beer,  and  had 
a  little  bread  and  cheese,  he  proceeded ; 
addressing  himself,  with  great  respect, 
chiefly  to  the  boy's  mother.  "As  you  have 
been  in  London,  Madam,  you  may  have 
seen  such  and  such  marble  statues,"  which 
he  mentioned.  She  said,  she  well  remem- 
bered them,  and  how  beauteous  they  were. 
"  Well,  Madam,"  said  he,  "  they  were 
made  by  me  ;  as  were  some  others,  which 
you  may  not  have  seen :  I  have  obtained 
a  little  fame,  a  good  deal  of  money,  and 
some  share  of  credit  among  persons  of 
consequence  in  town,  who  are  pleased  to 
say  that  I  understand  my  art ;  and  they 
generally  shew  favor  to  any  one  whom  I 
recommend.  I  formerly  suspected  that 
your  son  had  genius ;  a  gift  few  have  :  I 
have  long  been  satisfied  that  he  had  great 
talents  ;  and,  unknown  to  him,  have  exam- 
ined a  piece  of  sculpture  he  has  just  finish- 
ed, and  shewn  it  to  better  judges  than  my- 


THE  GOOD  SON.  175 

self."  Then  turning  towards  the  young 
man,  he  added,  "And  I  now  have  the 
pleasure  to  present  him  with  the  price 
which  the  King  himself  has  commanded 
me  to  pay  him  for  the  beautiful  statue  he 
has  made,  and  which  I  shall  take  with  me 
to  London  to  be  placed  in  the  Royal  Pal- 
ace. The  mone)^,  my  young  friend,  is  one 
thousand  guineas  ;  a  large  sum,  but  not  too 
much  for  the  work  of  genius  you  have  pro- 
duced, nor  for  the  wise  and  generous  use  I 
know  you  will  make  of  it." 

The  rest  of  the  youth's  story  is  easily 
told :  he  soon  made  a  great  fortune,  and 
gained  such  renown,  that  a  statue  by  him 
reflected  honor  on  his  country.  He  ren- 
dered his  beloved  mother  as  happy  as  her 
son's  virtuous  name,  and  the  wealth  he 
shared  with  her,  could  make  her  ;  enriched 
the  good  farmer  and  his  wife  to  their  heart's 
content ;  and  never,  for  a  day,  forgot  his 
debt   of   love    and    gratitude    to   the   old 

STRANGER. 


DAME  TRUMAN 

AND   HER  LITTLE   PUPILS. 

See  how,  in  her  high-backed  chair, 

Straight  and  stiff,  the  dame  sits  there, 

'Midst  that  trembling  urchin  band, 

Threatening  rod  within  her  hand  ; 

In  her  eyes,  oh  !  such  a  look! 

On  her  knee  the  lesson-book. 

Ah,  I  fear  me,  he  who  stands 

With  the  chubby  outspread  hands, 

And  the  face  of  droll  dismay, 

Cannot  all  his  lesson  say. 

See;  he  's  rooted  to  the  spot ; 

Just  one  word  he  has  forgot ! 

Much  I  fear  me  some  new  toy 

From  his  lesson  wiled  the  boy. 

"Wait  a  little  longer,  dame, 

Ere  you  cry  "  For  shame  !    for  shame  !  " 

For  the  word  will  come  again 

To  the  urchin's  muddled  brain. 


CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

THE  WONDER-SEEKER. 

(EXTRACT  from  "the  WONDER-SEEKER.") 

Charles  Douglas,  the  wonder-seeker, 
met  with  a  sad  accident,  which  kept  him  a 
long  time  confined  to  his  room,  and  pre- 
vented him,  for  many  a  weary  day,  from 
wandering  through  hill  and  dale,  in  search 
of  fresh  wonders.  I  shall  tell  you  how  it 
happened,  how  he  bore  the  great  pain  he 
suffered,  and  how  quietly  and  how  gently 
he  submitted  to  lie,  day  after  day,  bound 
so  that  neither  hand  nor  foot, — no,  not 
even  a  little  finger,  could  be  moved. 

Since  his  friendship  with  Mr.  Stanley 
had  begun,  Charles  had  gradually  given  up 
going  upon  hunting  mornings  to  see  the 
hounds  throw  off,  as  it  is  called.  Not  but 
that  he  still  dearly  loved  the  sight ;  the 
prancing  horses,  the  hunters  in  their  red 


178  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

coats,  the  hounds  in  their  anxiety  to  be  off, 
scarcely  kept  in  order  by  the  voice  of  the 
whipper-in, — all  pleased  him  still :  but  then 
Mr.  Stanley  never  went,  and  this  spoiled 
much  of  his  pleasure, — so  that  gradually, 
as  I  have  said,  he  forgot  to  go  too,  or  put 
it  off  from  day  to  day. 

Of  late,  however,  he  had  sometimes  rid- 
den his  pony,  Mite,  by  his  papa's  side,  and 
once  pretty  gentle  Zora,  who  seemed  well 
to  know  that  her  light  burthen  was  very 
precious,  for  she  bore  him  along  as  safely 
and  as  fleetly  as  the  best  horse  upon  the 
field. 

All  this  had  perhaps  made  Charles  too 
confident  in  himself,  or  too  careless  of  dan- 
ger. He  forgot  the  oftentimes  repeated 
advice  of  his  friend,  not  to  mistake  vain  or 
foolish  boasting  for  true  courage.  "  To 
thrust  yourself  into  needless  danger,"  Mr. 
Stanley  would  say,  "  is  no  proof  of  brav- 
ery. A  man  who  forces  his  way  through 
flames,  or  plunges  into  a  stormy  sea,  to 
save  the  life  of  a  fellow  creature,  is  cour- 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER. 


179 


ageous ;  but  to  do  either  of  these,  for  a 
mere  empty  boast,  would  be  the  act  of — " 

"A  madman,"  interrupted  Charles  ;  "but 
I  hope  I  am  not  so  bad  as  that,  Mr.  Stan- 
ley." 

That  he  was,  in  this  instance,  quite  as 
bad,  poor  little  Charles  afterwards  con- 
fessed, as  indeed  well  he  might. 

He  had  told  Mr.  Stanley,  one  evening, 
that  he  would  not  be  with  him  till  late  in 
the  forenoon  of  the  next  day,  as  he  was 
going  with  Hugh,  his  father's  groom,  to 
see  the  hunt-meet  at  no  great  distance  from 
Mr.  Stanley's  house.  "  If  you  look  out 
at  your  window,"  he  said,  "  you  will  see 
us." 

Mr.  Stanley  did  look  out,  and  the  sight 
he  saw  sent  the  blood  cold  and  chill  to  his 
heart,  for  three  men,  carrying  a  shutter, 
which  they  had  torn  from  a  cottage  win- 
dow, and  upon  which  Charles  was  laid, 
were  at  that  moment  opening  the  garden 
gate.  They  had  not  reached  the  door  be- 
fore Mr.  Stanley  was  by  their  side  ;  he  gave 


180  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

one  glance  at  the  pale  face  of  the  child, 
and  then,  staggering  forwards,  asked  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  "  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  God  forbid,  sir  !  "  said  one  of  the  men; 
"  he  opened  his  eyes  and  spoke,  when  he 
was  first  lifted  from  the  ground,  but  he  has 
fainted  again.  A  man  on  horseback  is  off 
for  the  doctor,  but  we  thought  it  best  to 
come  straight  to  you,  sir." 

"  Right,  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Stanley, 
recovering  presence  of  mind  the  moment 
he  knew  exertion  to  be  necessary,  "you 
have  done  quite  rightly.  Rest  the  shutter 
here, — I  will  carry  him  to  his  room."  But 
once  more,  as  he  wound  his  arms  round 
the  child,  he  was  overpowered  by  the  fear 
that  he  was  already  dead.  His  pale  face 
was  covered  with  the  blood  that  had  flowed 
from  a  deep  gash  upon  his  head  ;  his  eyes 
were  closed,  and  there  was  no  breath,  no 
sign  that  he  would  ever  rise  again  in  this 
world,  all  life,  and  health,  and  spirits,  and 
happiness,  as  he  had  been  an  hour  before. 

For  many  minutes  did  Mr.  Stanley  hang 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  181 

over  him,  uncertain  whether  he  were  not 
already  gone ;  and  it  was  not  for  some  time . 
after  the  arrival  of  the  doctor,  that  a  low 
groan,  and  the  eyelids  half  unclosed,  gave 
the  first  sign  of  returning  life. 

Faint  and  feeble  as  these  signs  were, 
they  brought  joy  to  the  hearts  of  those 
around ;  and  poor  Hugh,  who  during  all 
this  time  had  stood  as  pale  and  as  motion- 
less as  Charles  himself,  now  sank  upon  his 
knees  by  his  side,  and,  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands,  sobbed  like  a  child. 

The  history  of  Charles's  accident  was 
soon  known.  He  had  been  placed  upon  a 
horse  he  was  unable  to  manage.  The  cry 
of  the  hounds,  the  shouts  of  the  people, 
the  starting  of  the  hunters,  roused  the  spirit 
of  the  animal,  and,  dashing  along  at  head- 
long speed,  it  soon  outstripped  the  rest  of 
the  field. 

"  Well  done  !  bravely  sat !  take  courage, 

my  boy !  "  sounded   on   every  side  ;  and 

Charles  did  take  courage,  and  did  bravely 

keep  his  seat,  till,  at  a  certain  turn  in  the 

o* 


182  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

road,  he  lost  his  balance,  and  was  thrown 
heavily  to  the  ground. 

From  this  time,  the  little  boy  knew  no- 
thing of  what  followed.  He  had  been 
gently  raised,  and,  as  the  man  described, 
had  spoken  a  few  words,  but  then  had 
fainted  from  pain  and  loss  of  blood. 

In  this  state  he  was  carried,  as  you  have 
seen,  to  Mr.  Stanley's  house,  where  he  re- 
mained ;  for  Mr.  Douglas  being  from  home, 
there  was  nothing  to  prevent  his  friend's 
wish  of  having  him  where,  day  and  night, 
he  could  watch  his  recovery,  and  where  he 
could  kneel  by  his  side,  now  to  thank  God 
for  saving  his  life,  now  to  pray  Him  to  com- 
plete His  mercy,  and  in  His  own  good  time 
to  raise  him  from  a  bed  of  pain. 

The  visit  of  the  doctor  gave  Mr.  Stanley 
little  comfort.  Besides  the  deep  cut  on  his 
head,  Charles's  right  arm  had  been  broken, 
and  his  leg  and  ancle  bruised  and  sprained. 
If  they  could  keep  off  fever,  he  said,  all 
might  go  well;  but  if,  as  he  feared,  that  came 
on,  he  could  scarcely  answer  for  his  life. 


THE  WONDER- SEEKER.  183 

The  pain  of  setting  the  broken  arm, 
Charles  bore  like  a  little  hero,  or  perhaps 
I  should  say  like  something  better  still, — 
for  it  was  his  wish  not  to  give  pain  to 
others  that  made  him  try  to  hide  what  he 
felt  himself.  He  held  Mr.  Stanley's  hand 
closely  clasped  in  his  own,  and  from  time 
to  time,  glancing  at  poor  Hugh  as  he  stood 
in  silent  sorrow  in  the  furthest  corner  of 
the  room,  he  would  attempt  to  smile,  more 
than  once  repeating,  "  It  is  not  painful, — 
scarcely  any  pain  at  all." 

That  night  Mr.  Stanley  watched  hour 
after  hour  by  the  side  of  his  little  favorite ; 
and  much  and  dearly  as  he  knew  he  loved 
the  boy,  he  was  astonished  at  his  own  feel- 
ings, when  the  fear  of  fever  gradually 
strengthened  into  certainty,  and  the  poor 
child  became  delirious. 

Silent  but  earnest  prayers  had  Mr.  Stan- 
ley breathed  for  the  little  boy  from  the  first 
moment  of  that  morning's  meeting ;  but 
now,  overpowered  by  the  fear  of  losing 
him,  and  forgetful  of  all  but  his  own  agony, 


184  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

and  that  now  as  ever,  there  was  mercy 
with  God,  he  sank  upon  his  knees,  and 
poured  aloud  from  his  bursting  heart  a  fer- 
vent prayer  for  his  recovery. 

Mr.  Stanley  had  not  held  his  melancholy 
watch  alone.  On  hearing  of  Charles's  ac- 
cident, his  old  nurse  had  hurried  to  his 
side,  and  now  hung  over  her  little  charge, 
shedding  tears  as  bitter  as  those,  as,  a  few 
months  before,  she  had  wept  over  her  own 
child  when  he  had  been  laid  in  the  grave. 

Hugh,  too,  I  have  told  you,  had  taken 
his  silent  stand  in  the'  furthest  corner  of 
the  room,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  as 
if  he  could  neither  bring  himself  to  look 
upon  Charles's  sufferings,  or  to  leave  the 
room  in  which  he  lay. 

It  was  the  sound  of  Mr.  Stanley's  voice 
in  prayer,  that  first  roused  him,  apparently, 
to  a  state  of  consciousness ;  for  then,  tot- 
tering to  the  bed,  with  clasped  hands  he  fell 
upon  his  knees.  And  sad  and  solemn  was 
the  sight  in  that  darkened  room,  when  these 
three  beings,  of  different  rank  and  station, 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  185 

and  unconnected  as  they  were  by  birth  to 
the  little  sufferer,  side  by  side  offered  up 
prayers  for  his  safety,  and  joined  their 
voices  in  one  earnest  cry  that  the  God  of 
mercy  might  see  fit  to  spare  his  life. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Charles  once 
more  unclosed  his  eyes,  and  turning  them 
slowly  from  one  kneeling  figure  to  another, 
he  asked,  "  Am  I  dying,  Mr.  Stanley  ? 
Does  Dr.  Grey  say  I  shall  die,  nurse  ?  Oh  ! 
I  wish  papa  were  here  ;  I  want  to  see  him 
before  I  die, — will  you  send  for  him,  Mr. 
Stanley  ? — will  you  go  for  him,  Hugh  ?  " 
No  answer  was*  returned,  for  the  very  calm- 
ness of  the  child  overpowered  his  com- 
panions. "  Won't  you  go,  my  good  Hugh?" 
he  repeated  ;  "  Won't  you  do  the  very  last 
thing  I  shall  ever  ask  you  ?  " 

"  I  can't,  Master  Douglas,  indeed  I 
can't,"  sobbed  the  poor  creature.  "  Don't 
send  me  away  from  you, — let  me  stay  here, 
— I'm  not  fit  to  go, — I'm  not  fit  for  any 
thing  now." 


186  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

A  few  tears  ran  down  Charles's  pale 
cheeks.  "  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  though  the 
doctor  does  say  I  shall  die,  God  may  spare 
me  yet ;  so  don't  be  too  sorry,  poor  Hugh." 
Then,  turning  to  Mr.  Stanley, — "  I  want 
to  have  papa  here.  I  think  I  should  get 
better  if  you  were  all  here." 

"  He  has  been  already  sent  for,  my  dear 
boy;  he  will  be  with  you  to-morrow,"  said 
his  friend. 

"  To-morrow  !  "  repeated  Charles,  faint- 
ly, "  shall  I  live  till  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear  boy,  and  for  many 
a  morrow,  I  trust,"  answered  the  doctor, 
whom  the  sound  of  voices  had  brought 
from  the  next  room,  and  the  sofa  on  which 
he  had  stretched  himself  an  hour  or  two 
before.  "  Things  are  not  so  very  bad  as 
you  seem  to  think, — but  rest  and  quiet  you 
must  have.  No  more  talking,  or  I  banish 
every  one  from  the  room  this  moment,  and 
keep  watch  myself.  An  hour's  sleep  is 
the  best  cure  you  can  have  ;  take  that,  and 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  187 

I  promise  you,  you  shall  see  Mr.  Douglas 
before  the  sun  goes  down  to-morrow." 

The  words  of  Dr.  Grey  came  true ; 
Charles  slept, — at  first  restlessly  and  dis- 
turbed, then  as  calmly  and  as  quietly  as  if 
no  pain  or  suffering  awaited  his  wakening. 

From  this  time  his  recovery  was  slow, 
but  gradual ;  and  if  any  thing  could  have 
made  him  dearer  to  those  who,  day  and 
night,  held  their  untiring  watch  by  his  side, 
it  would  have  been  the  gentleness  and  pa- 
tience with  which  he  bore  all  his  sufferings. 

For  weeks,  his  papa  scarcely  left  his 
little  boy's  room, — for  months,  Mr.  Stanley 
was  more  than  ever  his  constant  compan- 
ion ;  for  it  was  long,  very  long,  before 
Charles  had  recovered  health  and  strength 
sufficient  to  begin  again  his  old  way  of  life. 

"  Ah  me ! "  he  said  one  day,  as  Mr. 
Stanley  laid  him  gently  on  the  sofa,  "  what 
is  to  become  of  my  discoveries !  Here  I 
have  been  only  twice  round  the  garden, 
and  I  am  obliged  to  lie  down  and  rest.     If 


138  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

this  lasts  much  longer,  I  shall  forget  even 
how  to  set  about  looking  for  wonders. 

"  I  hope  it  will  not  last  quite  long  enough 
for  that,"  said  Mr.  Stanley,  smiling.  "Be- 
sides, your  kind  aunt  seems  inclined  to 
take  the  trouble  of  wonder-seeking  off 
your  hands.  If,  when  you  get  well  again, 
she  is  still  to  be  on  your  side,  I  shall  run 
but  a  poor  chance  of  winning  the  race  we 
are  running  together." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Stanley  !  "  said  Charles,  laugh- 
ing as  he  took  his  friend's  hand  in  his  own, 
"  that  won't  do  any  longer.  You  know 
quite  well  I  found  you  out  long  ago.  You 
do  not  look  for  wonders — or  at  least  very 
rarely,  for  you  always  put  them  in  my  way. 
It  is  not  at  all  a  fair  race  that  we  are  run- 
ning, for  you  always  take  the  long  rounds, 
and  push  me  into  the  short  cuts  as  you 
pass." 

M  Nevertheless,"  rejoined  his  friend,  join- 
ing in  the  merry  laugh  of  the  boy,  which 
it  rejoiced  his  heart  to  hear  once  more 
ringing  as  of  old, — "  Nevertheless  the  race 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  189 

is  fair  enough,  for  my  legs  being  longer  than 
yours,  it  is  but  right  that  I  should  avoid  the 
short  cuts  you  speak  of.  I  must,  however, 
be  on  my  guard,  otherwise  long  practice 
will  soon  enable  you  to  outrun  your  master. 
But  this  promised  letter, — is  not  to-morrow 
the  day  ?  I  think,  Charles,  I  feel  more  cu- 
riosity about  this  history  of  a  nightingale 
than  even  you  do." 

"Oh  no!  I  have  been  trying  to  keep 
from  thinking  of  it  all  day  ;  for,  you  know, 
though  I  liked  all  about  the  squirrel  very 
much,  and  though  it  was  so  very,  very  kind 
in  Aunt  Alice  to  Avrite  so  long  a  letter  for 
no  other  reason  than  to  please  me,  still  it 
was  not  a  wonder  ;  and  if  I  were  to  think 
too  much  of  this  one,  and  that  after  all  it 
should  prove  no  discovery,  then  I  might  not 
like  it  so  much  as  I  have  done  all  the  oth- 
ers. My  aunt  says  it  is  a  wonder,  but  I  am 
quite  determined  not  to  think  of  it  till  it 
comes." 

Whether  Charles  kept  his  determination, 
I  cannot  say  ;  but  in  case  you  should  like 
p 


190  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

to  know  what  the  letter  about  the  squirrel 
was,  which  had  so  much  pleased  Charles, 
I  am  going  to  copy  it  here,  for  it  is  lying 
before  me  now,  and  a  very  long  one  it  is, — 
written,  too,  in  a  pretty  lady-like  hand.  It 
begins  "  My  dear  little  wounded  boy,"  and 
ends  with  many  kind  words  from  his  much 
loving  and  affectionate  Aunt  Alice. 

It  was  not  the  first  letter  from  the  same 
kind  hand  that  Charles  had  received  after 
his  terrible  accident, — it  was  one  of  many. 
The  first  part  I  shall  pass  over,  and  begin 
at  once  the  history  of  the  squirrel. 

"  You  must  bear  in  mind,  my  dear  boy," 
wrote  Aunt  Alice,  '"  that  the  story  of  a  pet 
must  ever  be  a  sad  one  ;  for  who  has  ever 
yet  had  a  dog,  or  cat,  or  crow,  or  sparrow, 
that  did  not  come  to  some  most  sorry  end  ? 
One  fine  morning,  a  few  months  ago,  when 
your  uncle  Harry  and  I  left  the  nursery, 
where  baby  was  kicking  and  screaming  in 
her  bath,  (which,  by  the  by,  she  seemed 
dearly  to  enjoy,  for  since  the  time  she  was 
two  months  old,  she  has  never  left  it  with- 
out a  most  angry  cry,)  a  box  was  brought 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  191 

in  ;  it  had  just  arrived,  the  servant  said,  by 
the  morning  coach.  '  Ah  !'  exclaimed  your 
uncle,  '  I  know  what  that  is ;  old  Robert 
has  caught  him  at  last,  the  poor  little  fellow!5 
and  he  lifted  from  the  box  the  prettiest  of 
all  pretty  squirrels.  i  What  a  little  beauty  !' 
I  said  ;  '  but  oh,  Harry  !  why  have  you  had 
him  caught  V  He  put  him  down  again, 
and  looked  rather  vexed.  '  Well,  this  is  too 
bad  !'  he  said  ;  '  did  you  not  tell  me,  Alice, 
you  should  like  to  have  a  squirrel  ?  Here 
have  I  been  trying  to  get  one  for  you  all  the 
summer,  and  now  you  ask  why  I  have  had 
him  caught !' 

"  It  was  very  true.  I  had  once  wished 
for  a  squirrel ;  and  if  you  want  to  know  why 
I  had  changed  my  mind,  and  had  even  for- 
gotten all  about  it,  I  shall  tell  you.  I  had 
not  then  my  own  little  Annie,  and  I  thought 
I  should  like  a  pretty  squirrel  to  pet  and 
play  with ;  now  I  feel  all  my  time  must  be 
given  to  my  little  girl,  and  that  I  have  none 
left  to  bestow  upon  pet  squirrels  or  pet 
birds,  and  indeed  I  find  that  I  no  longer 


192  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

care  about  them.  However,  as  it  had  been 
got  to  please  me,  I  determined  that  I  should 
be  pleased,  and  that  I  should  give  up  any 
little  spare  moment  that  I  might  snatch  from 
Annie  to  seeing  that  the  little  creature  was 
well  fed,  snug,  and  merry. 

"  We  got  a  cage  for  it,  and  uncle  Harry 
rode  off  to  the  village  for  the  best  filberts 
to  be  had.  With  chestnuts  and  almonds  he 
was  already  provided,  but  as  he  did  not 
touch  them,  we  thought  he  miglA  prefer 
nuts,  and  that  therefore  he  should  have 
them. 

"  The  nuts  came,  and  the  feast  being 
ready,  we  invited  our  guest  to  the  banquet ; 
but  though  dinner  was  thus  announced,  he 
came  not  to  the  table.  '  Poor  little  trem- 
bling thing  !  he  is  afraid  of  us,'  Ave  said. — 
1  When  Ave  go  away,  he  Avill  very  quickly 
come  forth, — never  mind,  Ave  shall  be  bet- 
ter friends  by  and  by.' 

"  But,  alas !  though  the  pretty  squirrel 
Avas  left  alone,  he  did  not  come  forth, — at 
all  events,  he  did  not  eat  the  nuts  ;  for  when 


THE  WCWDER-SEEKER.  193 

we  stole  back  again  some  time  afterwards, 
to  spy  out  his  movements,  and  to  count  how 
many  had  been  devoured,  there  they  still 
lay  untouched — one,  two,  and  three,  just 
as  Ave  had  left  them.  Not  even  the  mark 
vof  one  of  his  sharp  little  teeth  was  to  be 
seen  upon  their  shells. 

"  ■  I  am  very  much  afraid,'  your  uncle 
said,  '  that  old  Robert  has  played  me  false, 
and  brought  me  a  wild  squirrel  instead  of  a 
tame  one.  If  so,  poor  fellow  !  he  will  nev- 
er come  to  any  good.  He  will  hate  his 
cage  and  pine  for  the  green  wood  till  he 
dies.' 

"  This  seemed  too  likely.  The  squirrel 
was  certainly  not  a  tame  one ;  it  had  there- 
fore not  been  accustomed  to  a  cage.  And 
how  cruel,  then,  it  seemed  to  keep  him 
prisoned  against  his  will,  —  to  change  its 
free  and  happy  life  in  the  wild  wood  for 
one  of  confinement.  Besides,  it  would  cer- 
tainly die ;  it  would,  as  your  uncle  said, 
pine  away,  and  we  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  this. 


194  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

"  The  brass  bars,  which  a  few  minutes 
before,  we  thought  were  to  please  him  by 
their  brightness,  we  now  felt  were  but  bolts 
and  bars,  depriving  him  of  his  liberty  ;  but 
we  should  let  him  go,  we  should  set  him 
free.  It  would  be  delightful  to  see  him  out 
once  more,  and  out  he  was  just  coming, 
when,  alas !  we  recollected  that  winter  had 
set  in,  that  the  snow  lay  thick  upon  the 
ground,  that  he  could  not  make  his  way 
back  to  his  old  home  in  the  woods,  and  that 
now  it  was  too  late  to  build  himself  a  new 
one,  even  could  he,  as  was  unlikely,  ac- 
custom himself  to  the  new  place  where  he 
now  was. 

"  Besides  all  this,  the  poor  little  fellow 
had  doubtless  spent  the  summer  hard  at 
work,  providing  food  sufficient  for  his  win- 
ter store  ;  and  now  if  we  turned  him  loose, 
he  could  find  no  single  nut  or  acorn  to  keep 
himself  alive. 

"  '  Poor  little  squirrel !'  we  said,  '  your 
fate  is  a  hard  one  ;  prisoner  you  are,  and 
prisoner  you  must  remain  ;  but  do  not  let 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  195 

your  heart  droop,  my  pretty  one ;  for  as 
sure  as  spring  returns,  so  surely  shall  you 
go  off  to  your  wild  haunts  again.'  And  then, 
having  given  our  word  of  honor  that  it 
should  be  so,  we  could  do  no  more  than 
leave  him  to  his  nuts,  chestnuts,  and  al- 
monds, and  to  what  he  seemed  far  more  to 
delight  in,  his  own  sad  thoughts.      # 

"  Indeed,  Charles,  I  can  advise  you  nev- 
er to  wish  for  a  squirrel ;  it  is  the  worst  pet 
you  can  have.  When  I  saw  its  bright 
glossy  coat,  its  sparkling  black  eyes,  and 
its  long  bushy  tail,  I  thought  I  should  like 
very  much  indeed  to  have  it.  But  when  I 
looked  at  the  little  creature's  claws,  and 
saw  how  plainly  they  had  been  made  to 
grasp  and  cling,  and  how  the  little  legs  were 
formed  by  God's  hands  to  spring,  almost 
to  fly  from  tree  to  tree,  I  felt  ashamed  to 
see  him  shut  up,  and  hated  the  cruel  cage 
that  confined  him,  almost  as  much  as  he 
could  do. 

"  Well,  the  day  passed  on,  and  the  poor 
squirrel  was  never  seen  to  move  ;  but  when 


196  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

night  came,  when  the  candles  were  out, 
and  everything  was  still  and  quiet,  he  be- 
gan his  operations,  and  gnawed  with  all  his 
little  strength  at  the  woodwork  of  his  cage. 
At  last  there  was  a  crash,  a  spring  into  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  one  sharp  shrill 
cry  of  delight  that  told  us  he  was  free. 

"  As  it  was  still  quite  dark,  and  none  of 
the  servants  were  up,  we  could  do  nothing 
but  leave  him  to  his  own  devices  ;  and  they 
consisted  in  springing  from  the  bed,  to  the 
wardrobe,  and  from  the  wardrobe,  to  the 
bed,  as  often  and  as  merrily  as  if  he  had 
been  once  more  in  the  forest. 

"  As  you  may  suppose,  these  joyous 
proceedings  rather  disturbed  our  rest ;  and 
you  may  imagine  our  surprise  when,  as 
morning  began  to  dawn,  we  heard  a  rat- 
tling among  the  china,  and,  looking  up, 
beheld  our  friend,  seated  very  quietly  upon 
the  top  of  that  tall  vase  which  you  know 
always  stands  on  my  chimney-piece,  and 
which  your  grandpapa  had  brought  me 
from   Italy.     '  Alas,  my   Etruscan   vase !' 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  197 

said  I.  *  And  woe  betide  the  old  china 
cups  and  saucers  !'  sighed  your  uncle  in  a 
most  dolorous  voice,  for  they  are  his  pecu- 
liar favorites.  Our  fears  were  soon  put  to 
rest :  squirrels  are  not  such  awkward  in- 
mates as  we  imagined.  True,  the  house- 
maid's clumsy  fingers  had  knocked  two  to 
pieces  the  day  before ;  but  he  managed 
his  t^dy  feet  far  better,  for  there  he  sat  so 
long  as  it  pleased  him,  and  then  off  he 
sprang  with  one  light  bound  :  so  that  all 
the  harm  he  did  the  old  china,  was  to 
sweep  the  dust  off  with  his  long  bushy  tail 
as  he  brushed  along. 

"  Well,  morning  came  at  last,  and  with 
it,  as  usual,  your  cousin  Fred,  who,  as 
you  know,  always  chooses  to  rouse  his  un- 
cle Hal  himself.  '  Come  in,  my  boy  ;  but 
shut  the  door  quickly,'  said  we,  '  the  squir- 
rel has  got  out,  and  we  have  been  waiting 
for  you  to  give  him  chase.  We  must  not 
light  the  fire  till  he  is  safe,  or  the  poor  little 
fellow  will  be  jumping  into  it.' 

"  So  uncle  Harry  got  up,  and  Fred  call- 


19S  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

ed  Frank;  and  then  little  Frisk  joining  in 
the  fun,  barked  most  furiously,  and  away 
they  Avent,  full  cry,  after  the  poor  squirrel, 
who  leaped,  and  sprung,  and  flew  from 
one  place  to  another,  as  if  well  aware  that 
their  utmost  efforts  would  be  all  in  vain. 
The  more  quick  and  active  he  was,  the 
more  hopelessly  slow,  and  awkward,  seem- 
ed his  pursuers  ;  for  just  as  I  heard  in  one 
corner  the  cry  of  '  Here,  I've  got  him !'  I 
saw  the  little  fellow  in  another  looking  as 
wild  and  as  fearless  as  ever.  And  so  it 
continued  for  an  hour,  at  least ;  he  was 
here,  and  there,  and  everywhere  but  in 
their  hands.  At  last,  however  he  took  an 
ill-fated  leap  into  the  corner  of  a  large 
wardrobe.  '  Now  Ave  have  him  !'  they  all 
cried  at  once  ;  and  got  him  they  certainly 
had,  for  Freddy  caught  him  by  the  tail, 
and  in  spite  of  a  determined  fight  with 
feet  and  claws,  the  poor  squirrel  became 
once  more  a  prisoner  in  his  cage. 

"  There  is   but  little   more  now  to   tell, 
and   that  little  is  very  melancholy.     For 


THE  WONDER- SEEKER.  199 

two  whole  days  and  nights,  did  he  remain 
curled  up  in  the  box-part  of  his  cage ;  and 
although  different  sorts  of  food  lay  round 
him  in  every  direction,  he  tasted  not  one 
morsel.  And  on  the  third  morning,  when 
we  went  to  look  at  him,  he  was,  though 
still  warm,  quite  dead.  His  wild  spirit 
could  not  brook  a  prison,  and  in  depriving 
him  of  liberty,  his  heart  was  broken." 

So  ended  the  sad  story  of  the  squirrel. 
It  was  quickly  followed  as  Aunt  Alice  had 
promised,  by  another,  and,  as  Charles 
thought,  a  still  more  delightful  letter.  On 
the  very  day,  at  the  very  hour  on  which 
she  had  told  him  he  might  expect  it,  a 
large  packet  was  put  into  his  hands.  As 
it  was  not  then  the  days  of  the  penny  post, 
it  was  franked  by  uncle  Harry,  and  direct- 
ed to  Charles  at  Mr.  Stanley's  house,  where 
he  still  was. 

He  had  not  been  so  well  that  morning, 
but  his  eye  brightened,  and  his  pale  cheek 
flushed  with  pleasure,  as  in  great  haste 
tearing  open  the  cover,  he  prepared  to  read 
aloud. 


200  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

"  You  had  better  lie  still  and  allow  me 
to  read  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Stanley,  taking 
the  closely  written  sheet  from  his  hand ; 
and  Charles  readily  agreed,  for  listening 
he  thought,  was  even  more  delightful  than 
reading  ;  and  fatigue,  weariness  and  pain 
were  all  forgotten,  as  his  friend  went  on : — 

"  How  happy  I  am,  my  dear  little  won- 
der-seeker, to  hear  that  during  your  long 
illness  I  have  helped  to  amuse  and  occupy 
you.  I  wished,  but  scarcely  hoped,  to  suc- 
ceed so  well  as  you  tell  me  I  have  done  ; 
and  yet  I  do  assure  you,  I  have  thought 
and  rethought  over  my  whole  life,  to  find 
such  things  as  I  know  interest  you  the 
most.  I  have  not,  however,  I  fear,  been 
such  .an  adept  in  wonder-finding  as  you  al- 
ready appear  to  be, — or,  if  I  have  made 
any  great  and  curious  discoveries,  they 
come  tardily  to  my  recollection.  All  put 
together,  I  fear,  would  weigh  lightly  in 
the  balance  against  some  of  yours, — your 
little  gravediggers,  for  instance.  However, 
such  as  they  are,  you  shall  have  them  :  and 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  201 

you  may  depend  upon  my  exerting  myself 
in  your  behalf,  so  long  as  you  are  prevent- 
ed from  laboring  in  your  own. 

"  The  subject  of  this  letter  is  to  be  the 
nightingale  mentioned  in  my  last.  Wheth- 
er it  may  equal  the  expectations  raised,  I 
cannot  say ;  but  of  this  you  may  rest  as- 
sured,— it  is  a  true  one.  Your  uncle  Har- 
ry says,  we  shall  never  be  able  to  make 
anything  out  of  it ;  but  we  shall  see,  and 
you  shall  be  the  judge.  It  happened  many 
years  ago,  when  we  were  staying  at  Lucca. 
Lucca,  as  I  dare  say  you  already  know,  is 
very  lovely,  and  oh  !  how  happy  we  were 
there  together.  Some  were  with  us  then 
who  are  now  in  Heaven,  and  others  who 
have  since  wandered  far  away,  and  whom, 
unless  God  wills  it,  we  shall  never  see 
again.  But  though  the  streams  of  Lucca 
run  bright,  my  boy,  the  river  of  life  that 
flows  by  the  throne  of  God  is  far  brighter  ; 
and  by  those  who  walk  in  the  quiet  pas- 
tures, where  *  the  Lamb  doth  lead  his 
Q 


202  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

flock,'  the  fairest  meadows  of  earth  are  all 
forgotten. 

"  Your  cousin  Minna  and  I,  were,  I 
think,  the  two  who  loved  best  to  wander 
among  the  woods  and  lanes  of  lovely 
Lucca  ;  and  often  before  any  of  the  rest 
were  up,  while  the  dews  were  yet  fresh 
upon  the  grass,  and  the  first  glad  waken- 
ing song  of  the  birds  was  ringing  loudly 
from  tree  to  tree,  we  have  stolen  away  to- 
gether, with  old  Nep  for  a  companion,  to 
take  long  and  delightful  strolls  in  the  cool 
morning  air.  Very  often,  too,  after  the 
sun  had  set,  and  there  was  no  light  in  the 
heavens  but  that  of  the  little  twinkling 
stars,  we  and  our  good  old  dog  have  sallied 
forth,  rambling  so  far  away,  that  supper 
would  grow  cold,  and  poor  nurse  be  left 
to  wonder  what  these  good-for-nothing 
children  could  be  about. 

"  One  morning  when  we  had  wander- 
ed somewhat  further  than  usual,  we  came 
to  a  small  churchyard,  where  the  graves 
were  covered  so  thickly  with  flowers,  that 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  203 

it  looked  to  us  more  like  a  bright  and  beau- 
tiful garden  of  life,  than  the  lone  still  val- 
ley of  death  it  really  was.  '  Fond  hearts 
have  been  busy  here  ;  these  sleepers  are 
not  forgotten,'  Minna  said  as  she  stooped 
to  look  at  a  little  grave  quite  overgrown 
with  honeysuckle.  '  I  did  not  think  flow- 
ers, watered  with  tears,  would  thrive  so 
well ;'  and  she  was  just  breaking  off  a 
branch,  when  a  little  girl,  whom  before  we 
had  scarcely  noticed,  sprang  forward,  and 
in  soft  eager  accents  exclaimed,  '  Oh !  do 
not  break  that  flower  ;  it  is  the  one  that 
grows  upon  Pietro's  grave  ;  he  used  to 
watch  it  when  it  grew  in  his  own  garden, 
and  when  he  died,  my  mother  brought  it 
here.' 

u  '  And  who  was  Pietro,  dear  child  V 
we  asked,  for  there  was  something  so  gen- 
tle and  sad  in  the  little  girl's  manner,  that 
we  felt  at  once,  we  must  know  more  of 
her  history. 

" '  He  was  my  little  brother,'  she  re- 
plied, her  eyes  resting  mournfully  on  the 


204  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

tomb.  '  We  used  to  play  together ;  but 
God  wanted  another  angel,  and  so  Pietro 
went  to  heaven.' 

'"How  long  is  it  since  he  died?'  we 
enquired. 

"  '.Two  years,  lady ;  mother  says  it  is 
two  yearsJ 

" '  You  must  have  been  very  young 
then,'  we  said  ;  '  do  you  remember  him  ?' 

"  '  Oh,  yes,  yes  I'she  replied  ;  '  no  one 
forgets  Pietro.  The  little  bird  in  that  tree 
has  not  forgotten  him.  She  built  her  nest 
there  in  the  spring-time  when  Pietro  died, 
and  there  she  lives  still.  Stoop  lower, 
lady,  and  you  will  see  her  there, — just 
there  ;'  pointing  to  a  nest  in  an  old  crab- 
tree,  which  twisted  its  withered  branches 
over  the  side  of  the  little  tomb.  '  Do  you 
see  it  ?'  she  continued,  her  eyes  sparkling 
with  delight ;  '  it  is  a  pretty  nightingale. 
She  has  got  four  young  ones  now,  and 
very  soon  they  will  all  be  singing  upon 
Pietro's  grave.'  " 

1  had  intended  closing  Charles's  history 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  205 

with  his  parting  from  Mr.  Stanley,  but  one 
more  incident  I  must  relate.  Four  years 
after  the  morning  on  which  the  little  boy 
had  quitted  home,  as  an  English  carriage 
was  driving  rapidly  through  the  rich  valley 
of  the  Rhone,  the  postilion  suddenly  drew 
in  his  horses. 

"  Here's  another  stop,"  he  said  in  a  sur- 
ly voice ;  "I  see  a  carriage  overturned 
down  there."  And  instead  of  hastening 
his  pace  to  give  the  necessary  assistance, 
he  seemed  to  lag  on,  in  the  hope  that  the 
fallen,  and  struggling  horses,  might  be 
raised  without  occasioning  him  the  trouble 
of  dismounting  from  his  own.  His  em- 
ployers seemed  to  feel  less  indifference  up- 
on the  occasion. 

"It  is  an  English  carriage,  from  its  ap- 
pearance, sir,"  said  the  servant  from  the 
box.  "  Shall  I  make  him  drive  on  ?  they 
seem  to  have  no  assistance,  sir." 

"  Do,  Hugh,  by  all  means,"  answered  a 
young  voice  from  the  carriage  ;  "  or  let  us 
get  out.     Hallo  postilion  !  stay  where   you 


206  CHARLES  DOUGLAS, 

are, — willing  feet  will  take  us  sooner  than 
an  unwilling  horseman  ; — come  along, 
Hugh, — do  come  Mr.  Gordon  ;"  and  a 
boy  of  fourteen  turned  his  animated  face, 
with  a  pleading  look,  from  one  to  the  other 
as  he  spoke  ;  then  springing  from  the  car- 
riage, he  darted  down  the  steep  hill. 

"  Wait,  wait  a  moment  till  we  come," 
he  shouted  to  the  driver  of  the  fallen 
horses,  who,  with  a  single  assistant,  was 
endeavoring  in  vain,  to  disentangle  the 
traces  sufficiently  to  allow  the  poor  ani- 
mals' rising,  and  at  the  same  time  to  pre- 
vent the  carriage  from  pressing  still  more 
heavily  upon  them.  As  he  bounded  light- 
ly down  the  hill,  he  was  followed  by  the 
willing  Hugh.  And  so  intent  were  they 
in  offering  assistance,  that  no  glance  of  re- 
cognition passed  between  them  and  the 
traveller. 

With  their  help,  to  free  the  struggling 
horses  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment ;  and 
then  as  the  boy  paused  to  take  breath,  a 
well-known,  long-remembered  voice  sound- 
ed  in  his  ear,  and   with  a   shout   of  joy, 


THE  WONDER-SEEKER.  207 

like  that  with  which  he  used  to  welcome 
Mr.  Stanley  long,  long  ago,  Charles  sprang 
to  his  side  and  once  more  threw  his  arms 
round  the  neck  of  his  friend. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  How  did 
we  meet  you  here  ?  Why  are  you  on  the 
Continent  ?  And  why  have  I  not  heard 
from  you  ?"  were  questions  that  followed 
so  rapidly,  as  to  leave  no  time  for  an  an- 
swer to  each. 

"I  was  in  search  of  you,"  said  his 
friend.  "Our  letters  have  missed  each 
other.  Your  papa  and  I  met  in  Paris,  and 
from  that  time  I  have  done  little  more  than 
follow  your  steps,  never  arriving  till  too  late, 
and  sometimes  missing  you  by  little  more 
than  half  an  hour." 

Charles's  eyes  had  sparkled  through  the 
list  of  grievances  given  by  his  friend,  and 
scarcely  waiting  the  conclusion,  "  You  are 
come,  then,  to  go  with  us — to  travel  with 
us  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  his  friend,  "  we  have 
met  again,  my  dear  boy — not,  I  trust,  to  be 
speedily  parted." 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

A  SKETCH. 

In  the  first  age  of  the  world,  which  is 
called  the  Golden  Age,  all  things  which  the 
Lord  hath  made,  were  pure  like  Himself, 
and  man,  the  noblest  of  His  works,  was 
without  sin ;  nor  was  there  in  this  happy 
age,  anything  wanting,  to  exalt  the  life  and 
satisfy  the  soul  and  sense  with  pure  joys. 
Sweet  odors,  exhaling  from  delicious  fruits 
and  flowers,  filled  the  air  with  their  exqui- 
site perfume,  concerts  of  heavenly  music 
echoed  in  harmonious  numbers  through  the 
groves  and  among  the  hills,  the  orchards, 
fountains,  rivulets  and  winding  streams ; — 
in  fine,  all  that  could  please  the  sight  or 
exalt  the  soul,  was  disposed  in  such  order 
and  harmony,  that  nothing  could  be  found 
wanting  to  satisfy  the  desire  of  the  mind, 
and  gladden  the  heart  with  pure  joy  and 
delight. 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE.  209 

In  this  happy  Eden,  all  things  blessed 
God,  and  worshiped  Him,  in  a  holy  angel- 
ic life.  Selfish  and  worldly  loves  were  not 
known  :  one  feeling  reigned  in  every  heart, 
— love  to  God  and  love  to  man  ;  and  from 
every  living  thing  gushed  forth  continually, 
songs  of  praise,  which  mingled  in  one  cho- 
rus of  joy,  and  was  re-echoed  by  the  angels 
in  harmonious  numbers. 

In  this  blessed  age,  there  was  a  perpetual 
spring  ;  neither  was  there  any  darkness  at 
all,  nor  storms  of  wind  and  rain ;  but  in- 
stead thereof,  there  was  a  gentle  dew  or 
mist,  which  rose  from  the  face  of  the  earth 
and  watered  it,  causing  flowers  to  spring 
forth  spontaneously,  satisfying  all  things 
with  a  superabundance  of  good. 

Birds  and  beasts  of  good  and  pleasant 
natures,  and  such  only  as  have  a  good  cor- 
respondence, lived  for  man  in  this  age. 

4k  4k  4k  "3fe  4fe  .    Aia  J& 

■TV  TV*  *7V*  -a"  -Tf-  ^f-  *K 

How  this  golden  age  was  changed  into 
that  of  silver,  then  of  iron  and  brass,  may 
be  learned  from  the  Scriptures.      To  re- 


210  THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

store  that  age  again  in  some  degree  to  the 
Lord  and  to  the  world,  should  be  the  en- 
deavor of  every  one.  We  must  begin  this 
work  with  little  children,  and  become  again 
ourselves  like  them,  that  we  may  be  able  to 
do  them  good,  and  keep  them  pure,  look- 
ing ever  to  the  Divine  Being  for  help. 

If  the  Lord  could  be  represented  to  the 
minds  of  children,  more  like  a  tender  par- 
ent, with  the  purest  love  for  them,  whose 
ears  are  always  open  to  hear  then  prayers, 
and  whose  only  will  is  to  do  them  good,  it 
would  be  far  better  for  their  tender  minds. 

The  mysterious  and  awful  sublimity, 
with  which  the  character  of  "Our  Heaven _ 
ly  Father"  is  too  often  shrouded,  is  not  apt 
to  awaken  confidence  and  love  in  the  ten- 
der minds  of  the  young,  but  rather  to  ex- 
cite their  fear. 

Children,  wheresoever  ye  are  and  where- 
soever ye  live,  whether  in  the  church  or 
out  of  it,  remember  that  you  have  a  kind 
Father  in  Heaven  who  always  loves  you, 
and  provides  each  one  with  ministering  an- 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE.  211 

gels  who  tenderly  love,  and  are  always 
about  you  by  day  and  by  night.  It  is 
through  these  good  angels  you  get  your 
happy  thoughts  and  pleasant  dreams,  your 
good  and  pious  affections,  and  your  win- 
ning tenderness:  think  of  this,  and  keep 
your  minds  in  innocence,  that  you  may  al- 
ways be  the  receptacles  of  good  and  truth, 
and  become  happy  angels. 

And  ye  dear  children  who  live  in  the 
city  all  the  year,  go  forth  into  the  open 
country  as  often  as  possible ;  leave  the 
noise  and  bustle  of  the  city,  with  its  brick 
walls  and  everlasting  din  behind  you  ;  look 
at  the  descending  sun,  as  he  pours  his 
bright  flame  over  the  fields,  and  along  the 
sloping  hills,  sprinkling  every  quivering 
leaf  and  shrub  with  golden  light,  and  let 
your  thoughts  rise  from  these  wondrous 
beauties,  to  your  Creator.  Gather  the  wild 
flowers  from  the  field,  they  will  teach  you 
humility.  Listen  to  the  sweet  songs  of  the 
birds,  and  the  wild  echo  among  the  hills ; 
they  will  lead  you  to  knowledge,  and  fill 
your  soul  with  adoration  and  love. 


212  THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

Children,  keep  your  young,  pious  feel- 
ings ever  with  you ;  let  not  age  and  evil 
with  their  cold  iron  grasp  ever  wrench 
them  from  you  ;  look  to  the  blessed  Jesus, 
who  while  on  earth  blessed  you  and  said, 
"of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'' 

The  following  may  illustrate  in  some  de- 
gree, the  state  of  life  in  the  "  Golden  Age." 

THE  HAPPY  VALLEY. 

A  long  while  ago,  when  the  world  was 
much  younger  than  it  is  now,  and  not  so 
wicked,  and  man  was  as  fond  of  doing 
good,  as  he  is  now  of  doing  evil,  there 
lived  a  good  shepherd  and  his  wife,  with 
one  lovely  daughter  whose  name  was  Lu- 
ceia.  Their  home  was  far  away  from  the 
great  city,  for  they  lived  in  a  delightful 
valley  surrounded  by  verdant  hills  and  or- 
chards of  delicious  fruit :  the  green  turf 
and  rich  flowery  garment  Avith  which  it 
was  clothed  during  the  early  spring  and  late 
summer,  might  lead  one  to  mistake  it  for 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE.  213 

a  fairy  land.  In  the  midst  of  this  valley, 
there  was  a  charming  lake,  in  whose  clear 
bosom  were  reflected  the  green  sloping  hills 
and  tall  pines  which  rose  from  the  sur- 
rounding hill  tops,  with  a  grace  surpass- 
ingly picturesque.  But  this  external  love- 
liness was  not  all  there  was  to  admire  in 
this  charming  spot — the  people  lived  in 
pure  love  and  harmony ;  each  one  seek- 
ing the  good  of  his  neighbor,  and  endeav- 
oring as  far  as  possible  to  bring  upon  earth 
again  the  blessed  "  golden  age;"  and 
their  goodness  and  purity  seemed  indeed 
to  make  nature  more  beautiful.  For  this 
valley  was  not  only  fair  in  summer,  but 
during  the  winter  season,  the  air  was  mild, 
the  sun  shone  with  a  cheerful  light,  and 
the  groves  of  ever-green  gave  it  always  a 
cheering  appearance,  gladsome  and  smil- 
ing like  the  spring.  The  inhabitants  were 
principally  shepherds,  and  their  wealth 
consisted  mostly  in  their  flocks — gold  and 
silver  they  did  not  covet ;  they  did  not  de- 
sire it,  for  all  their  wants  were  supplied 
R. 


214  THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

by  the  bounteous  hand  of  nature.  Selfish- 
ness, pride  and  avarice,  were  so  little 
known  and  practised,  that  they  did  not  dis- 
turb the  happiness  of  the  people.  No 
one  attempted  to  cheat  or  deprive  his 
neighbor  of  his  rights.  Their  religion 
was  not  ostentatious,  but  a  pure  and  true 
worship  of  the  Lord,  and  was  shewn  in  a 
life  of  charity  to  the  neighbor. 

Here  too,  conjugal  love  was  a  pure  af- 
fection, and  marriage  a  union  of  mind  and 
heart,  untainted  by  wicked  and  selfish  pas- 
sions. 

But  to  return  to  this  good  family.  I 
have  chosen  Luceia  as  an  example  of  true 
goodness  of  heart  and  mind,  not  because 
she  was  the  only  one  in  this  peaceful  spot 
worthy  of  commendation,  for  there  were 
many.  Luceia  was  taught  when  very 
young,  to  shun  all  evils  as  sins  against  the 
Lord,  and  to  love  all  mankind,  as  equally 
with  herself  the  objects  of  His  care  and 
love,  and  belonging  to  Him.  Pride,  sel- 
fishness, and  vanity  were  not  allowed  to 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE.  215 

have  any  place  in  her  young  breast.  Some 
children  at  the  present  day,  are  taught  by 
the  example  of  their  parents,  (which  is  far 
more  effectual  than  precept,)  to  despise  the 
poor  and  unfortunate,  to  love  themselves 
supremely,  and  to  hate  all  who  deprive 
them  of  their  selfish  desires.  In  this  way 
all  manner  of  evils  are  communicated  from 
parent  to  child  and  from  one  generation  to 
another,  till  man  has  become  so  fallen,  that 
it  will  take  a  very  long  time  to  restore  that 
pure  love  to  the  neighbor,  which  must  be 
done  before  we  can  live  like  the  Lord's 
true  children.  Luceia  was  not  of  this  class, 
her  parents  had  watched  over  her  from  the 
cradle,  with  the  fondest  care,  and  loved  and 
cherished  her,  as  a  gift  from  the  Most  High  ; 
they  trained  her  as  a  tender  shrub  which 
they  saw  daily  opening  and  budding,  in  the 
shape  of  kind  thoughts  and  feelings.  These 
kind  acts  were  like  sweet  flowers  and  fresh 
fruit ;  her  mind  was  stored  with  every  vir- 
tue, which  gave  sweetness  and  grace  to  her 
lovely   person.     It  was  virtue   and  piety, 


216  THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

early  implanted  in  the  hearts  of  the  child- 
ren, which  made  the  people  in  this  little 
community  so  pure  and  happy. 

Every  one,  if  he  look  within  himself, 
will  find  there  two  contending  passions, 
one  elevating  and  inciting  the  heart  to  shun 
all  evils  as  sins  against  God ;  and  to  do 
good  to  the  neighbor,  from  love  to  him; — 
while  the  other  strives  to  debase  the  life, 
inclining  the  heart  to  worldly  and  selfish 
loves,  which,  if  not  overcome  by  willingly 
striving  against  them,  and  allowing  the 
Divine  influence  to  regenerate,  will  embit- 
ter and  destroy  all  the  best  affections  of 
the  heart  forever. 

With  such  sentiments  as  these,  how 
could  Luceia  fail  to  improve  in  goodness 
and  every  female  grace  ? — for  she  always 
obeyed  the  good  passions,  or  the  dictates 
of  Divine  Love  ;  and  so  she  grew  from 
childhood  to  youth — sometimes  thoughtful 
and  sometimes  gay. 

In  this  peaceful  and  happy  way  of  life 
the  shepherd  and  his  family  lived,  blessed 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE.  217 

in  their  labors,  which  they  performed  with 
a  quiet  happiness  which  none  can  enjoy 
save  those  who  labor  for  the  love  of  use. 
Now  Luceia  had  a  lovely  garden,  which 
was  her  especial  care.  The  entrance  to  it 
was  by  a  narrow  winding  path,  pleasantly 
shaded  by  green  trees,  which  gave  shelter 
from  the  scorching  sun;  and  was  a  safe  rest- 
ing-place for  numerous  birds,  which  sung 
in  concert  all  the  day  long,  and  were  so 
tamed  by  her  gentle  nature  that  they  would 
rest  upon  her  shoulder  and  eat  from  her 
hand.  The  flowers  in  this  garden  were  of 
every  variety  and  hue,  and  were  disposed 
in  such  order  and  adornment  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  their  beds  as  to  reflect  all  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow.  The  little  brook  which 
flowed  through  it,  concealed  by  a  hedge  of 
rose  bushes,  sung  sweet  melodies  of  praise 
all  day,  and  at  night,  its  tuneful  song  was 
heard  in  low  murmurs,  mingling  with  the 
wind.  Luceia  saw  God  in  all  these  won- 
drous works,  and  it  inspired  her  with  a 
purer  spirit  of  praise,  and  she  raised  her 
s 


213  THE  GOLDEN  AGE, 

voice  in  the  glad  song  as  it  was  borne  up- 
wards to  the  glorious  temple  of  stars. 

Her  parents  were  now  gradually  sinking 
into  the  vale  of  years,  but  happy  in  their 
good  and  true  life,  which  they  felt  was  but 
just  beginning.  All  nature,  with  its  beau- 
tiful, spring-like  freshness,  seemed  in  uni- 
son with  their  spiritual  life,  and  as  the 
shades  of  the  last  hour  descended  upon 
them,  like  flowers  at  night-fall,  they  gath- 
ered themselves  together  m  one  embrace  of 
love.  And  thus  they  passed  away — they 
two,  yet  one — encircled  by  a  heavenly  band 
of  shining  spirits,  and  the  music  of  angelic 
voices  welcomed  them  to  their  home  among 
the  blessed.  Luceia  was  now  alone, — and 
yet,  not  alone,  for  she  felt  that  their  blessed 
spirits  were  present  with  her  though  she 
could  not  see  them.  This  feeling  gave  her 
comfort ;  she  felt  that  the  passing  away  into 
the  other  life,  (which  is  called  death,)  to 
those  who  love  the  Lord,  was  but  a  sweet 
sleep,  from  which  we  awake  into  a  new 
and  happy  life. 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE.  219 

One  evening,  as  she  was  sitting  lost  in 
silent  communion  with  herself,  her  mind 
went  back  to  the  past  gladsome  and  happy 
days,  when  the  joyful  hymn  of  praise  was 
sung  by  the  united  hearts  of  her  parents 
and  herself, — the  memory  of  these  depart- 
ed joys  was  painful,  and  she  wept.  Per- 
haps these  were  the  first  sad  tears  she  had 
ever  shed.  She  felt  that  she  was  alone — 
that  there  was  something  wanting,  some- 
thing she  could  not  define,  and  yet  a  part 
of  herself;  perhaps  it  was  a  desire  for 
some  intelligent  being — that  other  part  of 
herself — with  whom  she  could  worship  the 
Divine  with  a  purer  worship  ;  and  she  pray- 
ed that  Heaven  would  grant  her  such  a 
friend.  All  are  born  to  love ;  it  is  an  un- 
dying principle  in  man,  and  although  it 
may  be  fallen  or  perverted  by  a  wicked  life, 
it  has  its  origin  from  the  Most  High,  and 
must  partake  of  His  nature. 

With  these  reflections  she  rose  from  her 
seat,  and  went  to  the  window  that  looked . 
out  upon  the  valley,  and  the  little  church 


220  THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

where  she  had  worshiped  with  those  she 
loved ;  there  it  stood,  the  tall  spire  gleam- 
ing in  the  moonlight,  while  the  lake,  from 
which  a  Avhite  mist  was  rising  like  a  mantle 
of  shining  light,  lay  directly  between,  in 
whose  glassy  bed  two  white  marble  slabs 
were  shadowed  forth.  For  a  moment,  she 
bent  her  head  in  sorrow  for  those  depart- 
ed ones ;  it  was  but  a  moment,  and  then 
raising  her  eyes  to  heaven,  she  said,  "  Fath- 
er, thy  will  be  done,"  and  she  sung  in  a 
low  tender  voice  these  sweet  lines : 

"  How  beautiful  is  death, 

"When  in  pure  light  we  die; 
Not  fearful  is  the  parting  breath, 
It  is  but  sleep  in  which  we  lie. 
Death  is  not  night, 
But  pure  and  glorious  light. 

Though  a  while  in  mortal  sadness, 
Here  we  bear  our  earthly  strife, 

Though  the  world  may  frown  upon  us, 
Heaven  shall  smile,  for  death  is  life." 

To  those   who   believe   in   a  life   after 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE.  221 

death,  if  they  have  sought  with  their  whole 
hearts  to  live  well  here,  there  ought  to  be 
nothing  painful  connected  with  it.  The 
passing  through  the  "  dark  valley,"  called 
death,  to  those  who  have  shunned  the 
shadowy  ways  of  evil,  and  have  lived  a  life 
of  charity  on  earth,  is  but  an  entrance 
into  a  truer  life,  an  eternal  one  of  perfect 
happiness. 

Oh !  if  man  could  but  realize  the  evils 
of  his  pride  and  selfishness,  when  indulged 
in ;  how  it  leads  him  to  injustice  and  wrong, 
to  abuse  and  despise  his  neighbor  and 
friend,  and  finally  to  despise  the  Lord,  and 
ruin  his  own  soul,  would  he  not  cherish' 
with  the  greatest  care,  those  affections 
which  would  lead  him  to  deny  himself,  to 
resist  evil,  and  to  love  his  God  and  all  man- 
kind? Our  Creator  has  endowed  us  with 
capacities  to  enjoy  all  that  is  good  and 
beautiful.  He  has  placed  us  in  a  world 
full  of  lovely  flowers,  trees  of  delicious 
fruits,  verdant  fields,  rivers  and  refreshing 
streams  ;  all  are  for  man  if  he  will  but  en* 
s* 


222  THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

joy  them,  which  he  can  do  by  living  a  life 
obedient  to  Divine  laws ;  and  the  Lord  does 
not  require  of  his  children  what  they  are 
unable  to  perform.  He  has  left  us  to 
choose  for  ourselves — but  how  have  we 
abused  this  freedom  ?  as  if  we  preferred 
sorrow  and  pain,  to  a  true  happy  life.  "We 
have  taken  great  care  to  seek  out  the  crook- 
ed paths,  and  the  forbidden  fruit,  and  then 
all  our  joys  fade  and  so  we  die. 

[The  story  of  Luceia  it  is  intended  to  finish  in  the  next  year's 
Annual.] 


HUMILITY. 


"  The  bird  that  soars  on  highest  wing, 
Builds  on  the  ground  her  lowly  nest ; 
And  she  that  doth  most  sweetly  sing, 
Sings  in  the  shade,  when  all  things  rest. 
In  lark  and  nightingale  we  see 
What  honor  hath  Humility." 


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TWO  Captains,   and  other  tales  by  Author  of 
Undine. 

Courts  Martial.     By  A.  Macomb. 


S.  C  intends  to  devote  himself  to'  publishing  books  tor  the 
Family, — chiefly  on  Educational  Subjects,  and  of  a  juvenile 
character, — and  will  be  happy  to  receive  suggestions  from  pa- 
•cuts,  guardians,  and  others  interested  in  the  ris^Mjenoration. 


rgestious 
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♦ 


